


Sailing by Orion's Star

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse, Adultery, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Gen, Gun Violence, Mentions of anti-Semitism, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Pirates, Racism, Racist Language, Romani & Travelers, Romani Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 433,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pirate AU. It all began with 6-year-old Enjolras and 21-year-old Javert crossing toy swords beneath the stars on the deck of an EITC ship. Years later, Les Amis use the sea as their revolution against destructive colonialism in the Caribbean, all under the tutelage of a certain escaped convict and his family, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. Paths cross and the past arises, all swirling up from the depths of the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! So a few notes on this story. It will be told in three parts. There will be lots of time jumps, but I will do my best to make those flow as easily as possible. The idea for this story emerged from me listening to the Pirates of the Caribbean soundtrack and thinking how interesting a Les Mis Pirate AU might be, and then proceeding to do a great deal of research on the Pirate Republic that existed on Nassau in the early 1700s, and the idea of pirates, especially from the late 1600s to the early 1700s, as social rebels who opened their ranks to the many people society shunned. As Colin Woodward, author of the The Republic of Pirates said “They were sailors, indentured servants, and runaway slaves rebelling against their oppressors: captains, ship owners, and the autocrats of the great slave plantations of America and the West Indies.” I’ll be handling a lot of different cultures and nationalities and race issues I haven’t before in fic, so if you see me doing something incorrectly, please do let me know! And I hope you enjoy!

**Sailing by Orion’s Star**

**Book I (Beginnings):** **Section 1, Part 1**

**June 6, 1695 Near Port Royal, Jamaica.**

Stars explode across the sky at the Steorra sails out from under cloud cover. Javert always loved the stars. They’d felt like a guide for as long as he could remember, certainly more than his pirate parents ever were. They are small pinpricks of light in the otherwise darkened canvas of the heavens, and foolish as it might sound, he feels as if they shine though the dark spaces inside him, directing his way. They know their place, rising every night without fail with varying degrees of brightness. It was comforting, somehow. Comforting, he supposed, because he’d never quite known _his_ place, caught between worlds as he was, leaving one but never fully entering the other. Not yet. Perhaps not ever, existing as half-formed constellation in the sky. His eyes pass over Orion, bright against the black, but fading as summer approaches, and soon it will clash with the sunset.

He doesn’t put much stock in dreams, he doesn’t feel reality permits, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t envision a day where his past, his heritage, his parents, no longer follow him. Where he’s never looked at twice or asked about his background because no one would dare, such was his competence and his reputation.

He was assigned to this East India Trading Company ship a month or so ago under the direction of Captain Michel Enjolras, one of the most renowned captains of all the Company ships in the Caribbean, son in law to the Royal Governor of Port Royal. Captain Enjolras was a French aristocrat married to the daughter of an English merchant and lord, immense societal and monetary power concentrated in one family. Javert sighs, foregoing his usual straight-backed posture in favor of leaning on the rail and looking out over the ocean. The breeze blows warm on his face, less sticky than usual on this early June night. Sometimes it was difficult to even tell the sea from the sky, black melting into the inky blue of the ocean this far out, very different from the blue-tinged clear water closer to shore. But tonight the stars shine brightly, the full moon spilling light all across the deck. The circumstances leading him to this post were…less than ideal, but he also finds he is pleased with it nevertheless. If he was certain about anything akin to fate, he might have attributed it to that. Captain Enjolras is a man under whom he will learn much, of that he is certain. An honorable man with a pristine record. His thoughts are interrupted when he feels something, or rather someone, run directly into his leg.

“Oh, sorry sir,” a small voice says, and Javert turns around to see Captain Enjolras’ son René before him, blonde curls hanging messily around his face, blue eyes apologetic. He meets Javert’s eyes for a moment and then looks down, picking up one foot and sliding it back and forth across the wood.

“Be careful running across the deck,” Javert says, gruff. “It’s slippery. And dark in some spots. Should you not be in bed?”

“We are going home tomorrow, so Papa is letting me stay up longer,” the boy answers, his accent a strange mix of French and English, caught between the heritages of his parents.

Javert surveys the boy, noticing for the first time that he has two small wooden swords in his hands, which are behind his back. The child is both quiet and excitable all at once depending on the moment. Pensive and intense when he sits on the deck looking at the ocean mixed with regular bouts of running about the ship fighting an imaginary opponent with his sword, or laughing as his father carries him around on his shoulders when twilight falls, laughing so genuinely that Javert wonders if he’d ever sounded so as a child. René was allowed out on short journeys of two weeks or less, and seemed to know the ship like the back of his hand even if he was only six years old.

“Ah,” Javert finally says, awkward and almost uncomfortable with how intently the child surveys him. “Well. I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

“How old are you?” René asks, interested in him, the intensity in his gaze far older than his years, somehow. They aren’t weary, but instead full of something Javert isn’t sure he could name, as if they are replete with years not yet lived, of lives long past and lives still in front of him. He finds it disquieting and intriguing all at once, as if the child contains multitudes within him that Javert knows not.

“I…one and twenty,” Javert answers, eye flitting upward as some of the other men congregate on the other side of the deck, chattering. Why was the boy so interested in him and not one of the others?

“But you used to be assigned to another ship?” The child’s voice draws his gaze back.

Javert pauses. He does not like to talk about the reason he’d been transferred from the _Orion_ , does not like to recall the disappointment on his supervisor’s face when one of the convict deck hands, Jean Valjean, escaped the ship with a female slave on his watch. Fantine, he thinks the woman was called. But then, he supposes, he isn’t required to explain the intimacies to a six-year-old.

“Two people who shouldn’t have escaped on my watch, unfortunately,” Javert says, not going any further. “So I was sent here.”

Enjolras frowns for a moment as if he hears the self-loathing in Javert’s tone.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says, certain. He offers Javert a shy smile and Javert feels one corner of his lips tugging upward almost of their own accord. “And Papa will teach you how to stop bad men. Pirates have tried to rob his ship before, but he won.”

“I’m sure he did. Your father is excellent at his job. I have been here but a short time, and I already respect him a great deal.”

The boy nods, his small smile transitioning into a wide, genuine grin. Despite himself, Javert finds he’s charmed. It is rare, and it is also, he thinks, fleeting. He is not particularly fond of other people, let alone children. There is another pause as René continues peering at him, and Javert turns on his heel to walk away when he speaks again.

“Would you play swords with me, sir?” he asks, in a barely audible but utterly earnest whisper.

Javert turns back around and René holds out the second wooden sword to him. Javert wants to say no. He wants to tell the child to go to bed. But for a moment, he remembers sitting alone on one pirate ship or another, playing with toys made from bits of wood, some sort of carousing going on around him that did nothing to quell the ache of loneliness he’d felt for lack of any permanent playmate. His parents never stayed on one ship for long, jumping from port to port, some crews better than others. He remembers his mother pleading with his father to stay put, asking him, for their child’s sake, to stay on one ship, to make a home somewhere even as they sailed around the region. But the circumstance was never right and he could see the love of adventure alive in both their eyes. Her face appears in his head more clearly than it has in some time, her long curtain of black hair hanging down and brushing against her smile. He touches his own hair almost unconsciously, knowing he got it from her. He shakes his head, focusing back on the boy in front of him.

“I…” he hesitates, but the boy looks so eager, eyes bright with hope. “All right.”

René hands him the sword, and Javert feels utterly ridiculous at how small it is. Just a moment later René crosses it a bit erratically with his own.

“On guard, pirate!” he shouts. “You will not defeat me.”

“Why do I have to be the pirate?” Javert asks, his voice a whine even to his own ears, irrationally afraid that the boy knows something about his past.

 “Because I claimed being the navy captain first,” René says, matter of fact, washing Javert’s fear away again. “It’s the rules.”

“Oh,” Javert says. “Well, I didn’t know. I’ll try to remember.”

René grins fully now; it transforms his face, washing away the loneliness and sending cheer cascading throughout, similar to the expression Javert’s seen when Captain Enjolras plays with his son. He taps the side of the boy’s sword with his own and René taps back a bit harder. They continue this way for a few minutes, moving across the deck until René stands in the puddle of moonlight, and from his place in the shadow of the mast Javert sees Captain Enjolras emerge from his cabin, no doubt retrieving his son for bed. Javert’s eyes look toward his superior, feeling sillier by the moment, and he lowers his sword. At this, René finds his advantage.

“You’re dead!” René shouts, poking Javert in the chest with the dull wooden point.

Javert doesn’t move, and René tilts his head expectantly, and so too, does his father, who has reached them, a half-smile on his face. He looks more casual than Javert has yet seen him, his sleeves rolled up and his hat removed, the top button of his shirt undone against the warmth of the night. Javert hesitates, then places his hands on his chest.

“A fatal wound!” he says, dropping his sword to the ground.

René considers, then frowns.

“Could have been better,” he decides. “You should fall next time.”

Captain Enjolras laughs rather joyously at this, and Javert sees his usual seriousness melt away as he looks at his son.

“Well, it seems you’ve been taught one must die dramatically,” he says, mussing René’s hair so that it falls completely out of its tie now. “Did you thank Javert for playing with you, René?”

A bit chastised, René turns back to Javert. “Thank you sir. You’re pretty good with swords, you know.”

“A bit of practice goes a long way,” Javert says, clearing his throat and feeling awkward now that Captain Enjolras has stumbled upon their childish game. At 35, the captain looks astonishingly young, though it seems to have no impact on how much the men respect him.

“Javert is a fine swordsman, particularly for his age,” Captain Enjolras says, clasping Javert’s shoulder with warmth, his French accent pronouncing the English with ease. The captain’s hand remains there for a moment, and in his head all Javert hears is the harsh voice of his supervisor from the other ship he’d been assigned to.

_Should have known better than to take on someone with such a…questionable past. Do you recognize the gravity of this situation Javert? Not just a convict, but a slave. Cargo that was bought and paid for._

He hears his father’s laughter, remembers shaking off his touch.

_Ah, lad, you will be a thief too, just like me. Just you wait. It’s the way of the world for people like us._

“All right, Javert?” Captain Enjolras asks, puzzled, concern in his voice that Javert can’t quite process.

Javert clears his throat, mentally clearing the smoke of the past. “Yes sir. Simply tired.”

“Could you teach me about swords?” René asks, hands folded behind his back as he stands on his tiptoes, his voice holding a slight sing-song quality.

“I thought you wanted me to do the very same,” Captain Enjolras says, throwing on a mock dramatic expression. “I see where your loyalties lie, son.”

“I never said I _didn’t_ want you to,” René argues, smirking at his father and turning his gaze once more to Javert.  

The captain laughs at this and Javert does too, though the sensation is honestly still a bit foreign to him. He has never found humor in many places, if he’s honest, but the captain and his son draw it out of him.

“So you should like _two_ teachers then?” Captain Enjolras asks.

René nods, looking between the two of them, eagerness lighting up his face. There is a pause, and Javert realizes he’s expected to answer.

“Well, with your permission sir,” he says, looking up at his superior. “Then I would not mind.”

“Permission granted,” Captain Enjolras says, smiling as he nods.

René jumps into the air with an excited shout, and scampers off toward a group of the men gathered on the deck who have called him over at seeing the commotion, and he is no doubt eager to spread the news.

“He has taken to you,” Captain Enjolras says, watching his son’s progress down the deck.

“Oh,” Javert says, oddly pleased. “No, I’m sure that’s easily done.”

“René is quite shy actually,” Captain Enjolras answers, gazing up at the clear sky above them, eyes lingering on the stars. “There are not many children his age in Port Royal who are… _appropriate_ playmates, and I know he is sometimes lonely and more used to spending time with adults rather than children, and while he’s talkative with adults he knows well, he is less so with new people. But the way he behaved with you was different. I like seeing such a light in his eyes.”

Before he can say more René runs back over, and Captain Enjolras seizes him, placing him atop his shoulders as the boy laughs, still regarding Javert with intent eyes.

“Well I am off to put this young one to bed,” Captain Enjolras says. “Goodnight, Javert. Get some rest, lad, I know you’ve kept late watch these past few nights.”

“Yes sir,” Javert agrees, watching as René waves at him in farewell, quickly ducking his head against his father’s neck but keeping one eye open to watch. Javert raises his own hand, waving back.

He watches them go, the starlight glinting off René’s bright blonde locks that always catch the sunlight.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1695.**

The first time the Enjolras’ invite Javert over for dinner, he finds René pulling him by the hand and upstairs toward his bedroom.

“René,” Javert chastises, but there is a chuckle on his breath. “I’m certain that perhaps I ought to introduce myself to your mother before I you have me gallivanting about her house. It’s not proper.”

“Papa’s gone to find her,” René answers, unconcerned and still dragging him along. He looks intimidating, he’s been told, all black hair and stern brow even at his age, but the boy doesn’t notice. “Here!” he exclaims once they reach the door, and he pushes it open with his foot.

 _You will mark up the wood_ , Javert wants to say, but suspects it will not do any good. He is not the boy’s parent besides. René lets go of his hand and Javert steps in, noting just how much sunlight floods in from the bay window on the side of the room. There is more space in this room than Javert ever recalls having to himself, and although he does not consider himself as coveting others’ belongings, he feels a stab of jealousy.

“The paint is a nice shade,” Javert comments. “A bit like the blue of the ocean when you’re not too far out.”

“Yes,” René says, nodding in approval as though Javert has understood him innately. “We painted it this color when I was five.”

Javert swallows a laugh at René’s tone, sounding as if he was five a long time ago as opposed to less than two years, but then, he supposes, when you are so young a year seems a very long time.

Javert gazes around, seeing several ships in bottles and at least three paintings of ships on the sea. Expensive, no doubt, and something he’s not sure he would put in a child’s room, given their capacity for accidental destruction. René’s room, he notices, is almost disturbingly tidy, and he suspect that is not due to the child’s own capacity for cleanliness, but due to someone picking up after him. There’s barely a speck of dust at all, he notes. Even in the corners.

“You like ships and the ocean, I see,” Javert adds, though he suspected this from the way the child’s eyes lit up on the two journeys he’s been on since Javert was stationed under Captain Enjolras.

“Yes,” René repeats, looking not at him but out the window, where the sea just peeks out from behind all the buildings beyond them. “I want to be a sailor when I’m grown up. Papa says I can join the Navy, if I want.”

“You don’t want to take over his position?” Javert asks, curious, knowing that is generally the way of things in wealthy families.

René furrows his brow, a strange expression for a child’s face, but it’s also not the first time Javert’s seen him wear it.

“It is what my grandfather wants,” he says, his tone heavy with gravity, and once again, Javert sees the passing of the years on his face, as though he has lived centuries and yet still has not even been on this earth a decade. “He and Papa argue. But if I was in the Navy I could protect people from pirates!” He turns back to Javert smile bright once more.

“We sometimes assist the Navy battling pirates,” Javert says, feeling that familiar stone in his stomach when he thinks of his past. A past he didn’t want, but one following him nevertheless. He does not wear his inferiority on his skin, otherwise there might be no escaping it. He is not an African or a native Carib, easily picked out in a group; his parents’ French Romani heritage left his skin perhaps a few shades darker than a typical Caucasian European’s might be, but the intensity of the Caribbean sun eventually darkens everyone’s skin, and he considers himself lucky to hide his heritage enough that most do not suspect. If they knew he descended from Romani parents, he’s certain he wouldn’t have this job. His mother’s skin had been much darker and his father’s lighter, and he was the medium between them, he supposed. But aside from their genetics, he does not carry their legacy with him. He refuses to believe the way they lived, their pirating and their disregard for authority, was genetic or inescapable. If anything, he was living proof it was not.

“I know,” René says with an odd sigh. “But I think I might like the Navy.”

“It is an honorable profession,” Javert adds. “And your grandfather might be convinced. The EITC and the Navy work hand in hand a great deal.”

They are interrupted by a firm knock on the door, turning to find Madam Enjolras filling the frame, a gentle smile on her lips as she looks at her son.

“Madam Enjolras,” Javert says, feeling awkward as he strides back to the door. “My apologies for not introducing myself first. René…”

“Quite all right,” she says, holding up a hand. “I know my son sometimes does not give one a choice once he drags them along.”

“Mama,” René mumbles behind them, embarrassed.

“I have heard a great deal about you over the past handful of months Javert,” she says, voice polite but guarded. “All good things, I assure you. My husband is impressed with your work. With what a natural you are at sailing.”

“Thank you, Madam,” Javert says, surveying her, noticing that though her own eyes are green, her hair is the exact same shade of blonde as her son’s, though it is neatly pinned up as opposed to René’s tousled, loose curls that nearly always fall out of his tie. “I am pleased to meet you.”

“And I you,” she says, sharing a fraction of her smile with him, and he suspects this is no small matter.

There’s the sound of more footsteps coming down the hall and Captain Enjolras appears, a wide if reserved smile on his lips.

“There all of you are,” he says. “I should have known René would wish to show you his room, Javert.”

“Quite,” Javert responds, and much to his surprise René elbows him lightly in the side, smiling quickly and looking away, shy at his own enthusiasm. Despite himself, Javert smiles back.

“Well,” Captain Enjolras says, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder, squeezing it. She reaches up with her own, patting his hand in response, but then places her arm back down by her side. “Are we all ready for supper? I’m famished.”

“As you always are, Michel,” Madam Enjolras answers, and she shares another inch of her smile with her husband. As ill-versed as Javert is in these matters, it is not, he thinks, the smile of a woman in desperate love with her husband, but rather one of true but simple affection. “Yes, let us go down.”

René hangs back a moment, allowing his parents ahead of them as he pulls on Javert’s hand once more.

“Did your parents love each other?” he asks with all the innocence of a 6-year-old. His eyes are wide, as if pleading with Javert for something the older man finds himself unsure of.

Javert clenches his free fist at his side, images playing in his mind of his mother and father sitting side by side one moment, his mother’s head resting on his father’s shoulder, and them shouting at each other the next, voices cutting and desperate in the wake of being, once again, with scarce coins in their pockets.

“I am not sure,” Javert answers, a strange guilt filling him as René looks away, a deep sadness hollowing out his eyes.

After a moment René looks up again, opening his mouth and closing it again, thinking better of whatever he was going to share.

“René!” Javert hears Madam Enjolras call, and the love in her voice restores the light in René’s eyes. The boy looks back at one of his paintings, gazing for a second at the wave crashing against the side of the ship, the acrylic sunlight laying in waves across the water. He looks back at Javert, gesturing him forward.

“Come on!” he calls. “You don’t want to miss Pauline’s cooking!”

Javert pauses a moment, watching the child run ahead of him, feeling something warm burgeon in his heart he does his best to ignore. Then, he follows.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1696.**

“Thank you for having me for supper Madam Enjolras,” Javert says, handing the maid his coat as he steps inside. “You are thoughtful to allow me join you as often as you do.”

“Of course,” she responds, offering a smile. It’s guarded still, but some of the coolness of previous meetings has melted away. She’d been rather distant at first with him, but as he knew her better he found her easy to speak with, a rarity for him. He’d heard rumors that she didn’t always get along with certain groups of ladies in town, however, and was very particular about who she spent her time with. It still bewilders him that he has become privy to the inner lives of one of the most powerful families in the region. “You are practically Michel’s protégée, you know. And René adores you, which inevitably won me over,” she says, teasing in the dry way he’s becoming accustomed to. “My father will also be joining us tonight.”

Javert smiles, yet he is still unused to doing it as often as he has in the year since he was assigned to this station. René, with all the tact of a seven-year-old, once remarked he smiled as a wolf might, though he found this more amusing than frightening, apparently.

“Governor Travers has returned from England?” Javert asks, knowing he’d had business there, absent from Port Royal for around 6 months or so given the length of the journey.

“Yesterday,” Madam Enjolras responds, and Javert notes that her smile grows tight.

 René comes dashing into the room, his shirt not quite done and his hair askew, but excitement in his eyes.

“Javert!” he exclaims. “Papa bought me two _new_ wooden swords since the old ones were splintering, can I show them to you?”

“Give poor Javert a moment darling,” Madam Enjolras says, her voice full of more affection when speaking to her son than Javert ever hears her use toward anyone else. “He just arrived.”

Javert opens his mouth but finds himself thwarted when the stern voice of Governor Travers cuts through the room.

“René. You do not shout indoors,” he says, sharpness wounding his grandson’s enthusiasm as Javert watches the child wither. “It is not proper.”

“Yes grandfather,” René replies, voice dropping immediately.

“Good lad,” the governor responds, wearing a stretched, obligatory smile. “Now button your shirt and smooth your hair, won’t you? You are a sight.”

Again René does as asked, and Javert sees him quell the light in his eyes in response to his grandfather’s demands. Governor Travers puts a hand on René’s shoulder as he looks up at Javert, and it’s clear the boy bears it heavily, as though his grandfather’s hand is made of iron.

“Javert, nice to see you again,” the governor says, putting his hand out and shaking Javert’s own. “I am told you have practically become Michel’s second in command.”

“Oh,” Javert says, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am not sure about that, but it is an honor to work under your son-in-law, sir.”

“Do not be humble,” the governor responds, waving his hand. “You are but twenty-two years of age and doing so well, after that…unfortunate incident on your previous ship. The convict who escaped with the slave woman was never found, was he?”

Javert does his best to prevent the red from creeping into his cheeks in embarrassment. His eyes land on Madam Enjolras for a brief moment, and an odd look passes across her face, almost as if she’s realizing something, but without context Javert cannot place the expression.

“No sir,” he says, clearing his throat and looking back at the governor. “Unfortunately not.”

“Devious people,” Governor Travers replies. “Filthy, lazy, immoral scum, if you ask me. Stepping out of their places.” He removes the hand from his grandson’s shoulder and places it on Javert’s instead. “But you have worked hard to overcome your mistake, and that is admirable. I will see to it, and I’m sure Michel will as well, that you continue to rise.”

Javert is silently thankful that the governor does not know of his thieving parents or the background he’s been so desperately trying to escape since he was a child. Otherwise _he_ might be one of those filthy, lazy, scum the governor just mentioned. He might be a thief just as his father promised. Unbidden, Javert hears his mother’s voice in his head, remembers her singing to him in soft, velvet whispers with the Sinti-Manouche Romani dialect from her home region in France and lulling him to sleep on nights when the ship thrashed against the waves. It is the kindest thing he remembers from his childhood. He shakes his head, pushing it off and cutting off any remembrance that might come next. He has approval from the two greatest authorities in Port Royal, indeed two of the most respected men in the Caribbean, and that, he knows, is far worthier that the memories of a mother who abandoned him.

“Thank you sir,” he answers, hearing the door open behind him. “I am grateful. I will do everything in my power to live up to your faith in me.”

He turns around to greet Captain Enjolras only to find his mentor is not alone, but has Lieutenant Arthur Combeferre by his side. The latter hastily stuffs a letter into his pocket as all their eyes fall on the pair, but Javert hears the soft huff of disapproval from Governor Travers, who stands next to him. It is common knowledge that Arthur fell in love with an African woman on Haiti, with whom he fathered a child. It is common knowledge that he sends funds for the support of the boy and keeps in contact.  

“Papa!” René says, greeting his father joyfully, but still keeping his voice down. He hugs his father and waves shyly at Lieutenant Combeferre, who smiles.

“Are you still talking about your son coming to live here sir?” René asks, hopeful, knowing the other boy is his age.

Lieutenant Combeferre’s eye dart up to Governor Travers, who frowns but says nothing. He squats down so he’s at René’s eye level, still friendly despite being obviously nervous.

“It is being discussed,” he responds, vague. “But it is not so easy as you might think, for someone like my son to come live here. Though I would like it very much. I’ve told him about you in my letters.”

René brightens at this, but Javert notes that with his grandfather in the room, he keeps his hands folded in front of him.

“Why is it so hard to bring him here?” René asks, looking between the lieutenant and his father. “We could be friends.”

“A discussion for another time,” Captain Enjolras answers, patting his son on the shoulder, avoiding a lesson in the racial hierarchy and societal rules they live under. Javert’s heard men say these things are natural and heard others say the opposite, but to him it matters not because they are in place and one must follow, fit, or pay the price. “Is it time to for supper? I admit, I am famished.”

A few hours later, after dinner is served and while Lieutenant Combeferre takes René out on a walk to see the new ship his father’s crew will sail on, Javert finds himself in the middle of a conversation of which he would decidedly rather not be a part.

“The Lieutenant has some curious opinions about the slave trade,” Governor Travers begins, voice slow and casual as if he’s discussing the meal they just had, but his expression is austere, his entire face lined with his frown as he stands up absolutely straight, one hand grasping the mantle. “Apparently believes their treatment is immoral and has even, if you can believe it given his occupation, his status, mentioned abolishing it, if my sources are correct.”

“Father,” Madam Enjolras says, anxiety in her tone that is layered with thin sheaths of ice. “Must we speak about this? We’re having a nice evening.”

“Yes Astra, we must speak about it,” the governor says, turning toward his daughter. “Michel and Javert spend a great amount of time with this man, they work together. René sees him frequently. One must think about the effects of the company one keeps.”

“I can assure you sir,” Captain Enjolras says and Javert hears the edge of worry in his tone. “Arthur is one of my closest companions and I have known him for long while. He is honorable and an excellent sailor. An irreplaceable navigator. A friend.”

“Who fell in love with an African woman?” the governor asks, scathing. “Who impregnated her with a child stained by her inferiority? That boy will never belong anywhere.”

Captain Enjolras pauses, swallowing back another defense of Arthur, and Javert feels the tension in his own muscles, wondering why, exactly the governor would bring up this issue in front of him. It seems private, and yet the man has included him in the conversation.

“We all have our indiscretions, I’m sure,” Captain Enjolras finally says, and Javert sees Madam Enjolras raise her eyebrows in what looks like approving surprise at her husband standing his ground.

“Yes, well. He continues his openly rather than sweeping it under the rug, doesn’t he? He is not ashamed and yet may continue his life as usual despite that,” the governor continues. “And what will you do if you are ordered to transport slaves, Michel? With this man on your crew? You carry sugar from the plantations frequently, and one day slaves will follow. Plenty of East India ships already do.”

Michel frowns, lacing his fingers together as he looks up at his father in law. “I will do as instructed, of course. I will do my job. Nothing would get in the way of that, no matter even the qualms of my friends.”

Governor Travers nods, looking over at Javert.

“And you, Javert? Have you any remarks against the slave trade?”

“No, sir,” Javert answers, and he feels Captain Enjolras’ eyes on him. “I do not question the authority of the government and the way our hierarchy functions. Things are the way they are for a reason. Everyone has a duty to know their place and to follow the law.”

“Quite right,” the governor answers, turning again to his son in law. “And if Lieutenant Combeferre’s bastard son…”

“Father, please,” Madam Enjolras says, tone brimming with annoyance.

“He is what he is, Astra,” Governor Travers snaps. “If he does come here, will he be a playmate for René? Do you find that suitable?”

“He is the son of one of the most respectable men I know,” Captain Enjolras replies. “No matter his mother. So yes. From what I’ve heard of the child he will make an excellent companion for René, who is extremely lonely. Arthur says he’s intelligent, imaginative, someone who could easily keep up with René. There are not many children René’s age who are appropriate friends for him, and it will also be a better living condition for the child.”

“Astra?” the governor asks. “You approve?”

“René is lonely, as Michel said,” she replies, fingering a haphazard bracelet René made of leaves earlier that day that she wears on her wrist. “I would welcome any new companion for him. He loves going out on journeys of course, but he cannot do that all the time, and when he is home it is largely me he spends time with, and I am unable to be here every moment. So when he’s done with his tutors for the day and I am occupied he spends a great deal of time alone. He doesn’t mind being by himself, but it happens far too often.”

“Well, you are his parents,” the governor concedes. “But if I sense this child… _corrupting_ the only heir to this family I shall not hesitate to speak to you about it.”

Michel and Astra both nod, though while there is obedience in Michel’s eyes, Javert doesn’t miss the flash of anger in his Astra’s.  A few minutes later Governor Travers departs, and Lieutenant Combeferre and René return moments after. Javert watches Madam Enjolras scoop up her obviously sleepy son and thank the Lieutenant as Captain Enjolras pulls him to the side, looking apologetic, his mouth forming a thin line.

“I am sorry my father in law drew you in to that conversation,” he says, voice low as if he suspects the mentioned man will appear around the corner. “He hasn’t approved of Arthur since he found out about his liaison and resultant child. He disapproved even more when he realized Arthur still kept in contact.”

“It is all right, sir,” Javert answers.

Captain Enjolras’ lips lift up, turning into a small half-smile. “I suppose his bringing it up in front of you is an indicator of his approval of you, however. You are an irreproachable man, Javert. One of my most trusted men.”

“Thank you sir,” Javer replies, feeling, once more, that foreign sensation of belonging, even if it’s on the periphery. “I know trust is not so easily handed out.”

“No it is not,” Captain Enjolras agrees, putting his hand on Javert’s shoulder, a familiar gesture now to which Javert is not sure he will ever grow accustomed, but one that he likes, if he’s honest with himself. “I hope you know that you might also place your trust in me?”

Javert meets his eyes for a moment, and through his usual stoicism, Javert sees the older man’s smile brighten the way it does when he looks at his son.

“Yes sir. I do.”

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1697.**

8-year-old René Enjolras is impatient. He sits at the dining room table, feet just grazing above the wood floors beneath as they swing back and forth. He sighs, crossing his arms on the surface and resting his chin on his hands.

“Something the matter, René?” Javert asks, looking up from his place gazing out the window, hands clasped behind his back as Enjolras noticed they normally are when he stands.

“Where _is_ everyone?” Enjolras asks, emphasizing the second word. 

“You know where they are,” Javert answers, turning toward him. “Your mother is at a gathering in town and your father has gone to meet with Lieutenant Combeferre and his son to bring them here.”

“I know _where_ they are,” Enjolras insists.

Javert raises his eyebrows, and Enjolras hears the confusion in his voice.

“Then why did you ask?”

“I meant what is taking them so long,” Enjolras adds. “They’ve been gone _ages_.”

“They have been gone a half hour at most,” Javert points out, sitting down at the table now.

“Well if _feels_ like ages,” Enjolras says, pouting.

“Is there a reason you are so anxious for their arrival?

Enjolras looks up, feeling his cheeks burn red. He isn’t sure why he feels embarrassed, only that he does.

“I just thought,” he begins, trying to form the words he means. “We’re the same age, and I’ve played with other children, but they either move away or are older or younger than me or Papa deems them inappropriate if they’re poor children and I just thought…” he trails off, mumbling.

“You thought he could be your friend?” Javert prods, and there’s something in his eyes Enjolras doesn’t fully understand, but senses within himself even still. He knows how lonely he feels sometimes, and he wonders if Javert does, too. Wonders if Javert ever had friends when he was his age.

Enjolras nods, sitting up and folding his hands in his lap.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll be here soon and I don’t see any reason why Lieutenant Combeferre’s son wouldn’t like you,” Javert replies, a smirkish smile in his normally stern expression, quirking one eyebrow, teasing in his own way. “Perhaps then you will no longer need me to play the pirate in your sword games.”

At this Enjolras bolts straight up, a protest on his lips as his small hand reaches out and grasps Javert’s arm, fingers clenching at the fabric of his jacket.

“No!” he exclaims, drawn from his pensiveness. “I…I want you to play with me. You still will, won’t you? I can even be the pirate, sometimes, we can switch.”

“Yes,” Javert says, taken aback by Enjolras’ passionate response, patting the boy’s arm awkwardly. “Yes I will still play with you.”

At this the door opens, interrupting whatever Enjolras might have said next.

“René,” his father calls, entering. “Come here, won’t you?”

Enjolras vacates his chair, his hands feeling sweaty as he twists his fingers in front of him. He looks up at Lieutenant Combeferre, whose smile is wider than Enjolras has ever seen it, unquenched joy brimming in his eyes. Enjolras looks at the other boy now. A smile flashes on the unfamiliar face as he pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with one finger. He has medium brown skin and dark brown eyes, hair a tousle of short black curls.

“René Enjolras,” Lieutenant Combeferre says, hands resting lightly on his son’s shoulders. “This is my son, Frantz Combeferre.”

“Hello,” Combeferre says, waving with one hand.

“Hello,” Enjolras says back, sticking his hand out as he’s seen his father do, hoping Combeferre will shake it in return. He’s a bit taller than the other boy, he realizes.

Frantz Combeferre considers, then smiles again and puts his own hand out, and Enjolras finds his skin is warm.

“Nice to meet you,” Enjolras says, swaying back and forth on his feet after he removes his hand.

“You too,” Combeferre says. “My father’s been telling me about you on the way here. And in his letters.”

“He’s told me about you, too,” Enjolras replies.

He studies Combeferre a moment, feeling a sense of familiarity that he doesn’t normally when around people he’s just met. He doesn’t know why, and he couldn’t explain it, he only knows it’s true.

“I started teaching Combeferre how to read maps on our journey from Haiti,” Lieutenant Combeferre says, moving his hands from his son’s shoulders and crouching next to them as if he senses their connection and is physically filling the space between them. “And about star reading. You two share a love of sailing, it seems. A love of the sea.”

Enjolras looks up at his father for a moment. He stands back a few feet next to Javert, their hands clasped in a similar fashion behind their backs, but he smiles, nodding in encouragement.

“I have lots of ship models in my room,” Enjolras finally says, shuffling his right foot back and forth across the wood. “Would you like to come see?”

Combeferre nods so enthusiastically that it nearly looks as if he’ll topple over, and after a moment’s hesitation, Enjolras takes his hand, leading him up the stairs and toward his bedroom. They reach the landing, and Combeferre looks around, wide-eyed, trailing behind Enjolras even as the other boy still loosely clasps his hand.

“Your room is so big!” he exclaims as they step inside, adjusting his spectacles again as the gazes around, eyes catching on a large map spread out across the seat by the window. “A map!”

“I was looking at it and thinking of all the islands and places I’d like to visit,” Enjolras says, gesturing for Combeferre to sit next to him on the seat as they place the map over their laps.

“Father is teaching me how to read maps,” Combeferre says, proud, parroting his father’s words from earlier. “Have you ever been off this island?”

“We came here from England when I was three, but I don’t really remember,” Enjolras says, finger tracing the distance from the island of Great Britain to Jamaica. “And sometimes I go on journeys with Papa and Javert. I’ve seen Nassau and Haiti.”

“I just came from Haiti!” Combeferre says, finger landing on the island. “It’s the first time I’ve ever been away.”

Combeferre’s eyes fall onto the map, and Enjolras gazes at him, feeling, once again, the sense that he’s known the other boy his entire life even if it’s only been a few minutes in total. He knows that lots of people with Combeferre’s skin are slaves, though when he questions the adults about it he never truly receives an answer. They don’t have any black slaves in their house, only white servants, but his grandfather does, and Enjolras has seen how he treats them, he’s seen him shout and slap them. He’s heard him say his slaves should be so lucky, working in a house and not out in the sweltering sugar plantations, and every time, Enjolras feels something heavy in the pit of his stomach, growing and expanding until every part of him feels like stone. He doesn’t understand how any of that is fair. Combeferre looks up again, smiling at him, and his limbs grow light again.

“Are you going to stay here for a while?” Enjolras asks, hope growing in his voice.

“I think so,” Combeferre says, folding his hands over the top of the map. “Father says I can learn more here, mentioned something about tutors. It’s why my mother wanted me to come live with him.”

“You miss her?” Enjolras asks, sensing something in Combeferre’s voice.

Combeferre nods, pulling a stack of envelopes out of his pockets. “She wrote me a few letters to get started, until I could get here and write her. She’s so smart, my mother! She taught me English and French, since she knows both, from well…from working in houses like this one on Haiti, but she said she couldn’t get a proper education, because well…” Combeferre pauses, looking at his skin and then up at Enjolras again and imparting thoughts with his eyes rather than saying them aloud because he isn’t sure if it’s safe to say what he wants. “Anyway, she wanted me to have one.”

“I would miss my mother too,” Enjolras says. “You will have to meet her! I know French and English too.”

“Your father is French, isn’t he?” Combeferre asks. “I heard his accent.”

Enjolras nods. “He has a house there, but I only went there once when I was a baby, so I don’t remember.”

“You’ve got a lot of ships in here,” Combeferre observes. “And paintings of the ocean. Do you like sailing with your father? My father says maybe I can go with them sometimes, like you do.”

“Yes!” Enjolras says, enthusiastic. “My favorite thing is to sit on the ship when the sun comes up and there’s no islands around and watch it spread colors across the water. It makes it look like the sky is on fire.”

“Mine is the sunset,” Combeferre says, looking out the window as the dying rays of the afternoon sunlight filter through, striking the center of the map and landing on Nassau. “The way it spreads light across the sky and slowly sets behind the trees back home.”

A contended silence ebbs into the moment, and both the boys look from the map to the ocean beyond, just barely visible on the horizon from this house on the highest hill in Port Royal.

“I’ve never had many friends my age before,” Enjolras says, looking down at his feet as he shuffles them on the floor, then gathers his courage and looks up at Combeferre, who looks back. “But I…I would like to be your friend.”

“Me too,” Combeferre says, reaching out his hand with a grin.

Enjolras takes it, shaking firmly.

“If we go downstairs maybe we can get Javert to practice swords with us,” Enjolras says. “I have three now!”

Combeferre nods once again, excitement gleaming in his eyes. With that, the two boys run down the stairs, a new bond blossoming between them.

 


	2. Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Combeferre bond, swiftly becoming the best of friends. Much to his surprise, Javert finds himself belonging somewhere and maybe, just maybe, caring about people. Yet he finds he cannot quite escape his heritage or Valjean, whose escape still haunts him as stories spread of the pirate Fauchelevent and his habit of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. But through happy memories of sailing and building sand-ships, the shadow of Enjolras' grandfather grows darker, and the power of the colonial world closes in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks so much for the wonderful feedback on the first chapter of this story, it is much appreciated! 
> 
> As a note on the structure of this story to prevent any confusion, it's going to be told in three parts. Part I (Beginnings) will tell the backstories of the characters. First with Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Javert, then Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette, then Feuilly, then Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, and finally Prouvaire and Bahorel. In the true spirit of Les Mis, each part will fall into the other, tying everything together. Part II (Coming together) will tell the story of how all the Amis join Valjean's crew, and Part III (The Past Returns), will have all the world colliding. There will be a good bit of time hopping around, but I will do my best to make it coherent! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, warnings in this chapter for child abuse and period racism, including language.

**Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 2**

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1698**

“Javert come join us!” René calls, turning around from his place next to Frantz and gesturing him over, his skinny arms covered in sand.

Javert looks over from his spot a few feet away, gazing at the trio in front of him. René, Frantz, and Lieutenant Combeferre sit together in a semi-circle in the sand, halfway through building what looks like a ship.

“I’m all right here, I think,” Javert says. “Isn’t it the tradition to build a castle?”

Lieutenant Combeferre laughs, and the sound bubbles up into the air,  contagious, and Javert cannot help but smile, even if he doesn’t know why.

“You would be right,” he says, looking up at Javert. “We thought we would be adventurous, but it was a bit of a failed experiment, I’m afraid.” He looks over at one of the sails, which starts blowing away even in the light breeze, but his eyes brighten with joy as he looks up at René and Frantz, who are still determined.

“No, we need more sand here,” Frantz mutters, looking contemplatively at the crumbling structure in front of him. “Pat this down for me, René?”

René does as asked, but frowns. “Maybe we _should_ have tried a castle.”

Javert watches them for a few more minutes, gazing on as Lieutenant Combeferre sinks deeper into the sand while he works, his coat tossed off to the side, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, just as dirty as the boys are. After a half hour or so Javert hears footsteps behind him, seeing Captain Enjolras approaching. The moment he sees his friend buried up to his elbows in sand with their sons, he tries his best to place a reprimanding expression on his face, but a smile slides onto his lips nevertheless.

“I see you all have gotten up to quite the project while I was in my officer doing paperwork,” he teases, stopping next to Javert.

“We’re building a ship!” René exclaims, jumping up from the sand and running over to his father.

“So I see!” Captain Enjolras says, ruffling his son’s hair with affection, though avoiding getting sand on his clothes. “It practically looks ready for sail. I am afraid I have to pull Arthur away, however.”

“He’s crucial to our efforts!” Frantz protests, looking up in dismay at Captain Enjolras. “We need three people to finish.”

“Well even without him I’m sure you could find a way to figure out, my lad,” Captain Enjolras says, fond. “With your brains. But I’m sure Javert could stand in if you need a third man.”

“Sir?” Javert asks, bewildered. He’s watched René a few times, but he’s never been left in charge of both children at once, aside from when they sailed and he knew Captain Enjolras and Lieutenant Combeferre were only a few feet away at any given time.

Lieutentant Combeferre raises his eyebrows as he gets up from the ground, ridding himself of some of the sand and flicking it toward Captain Enjolras.

“Mature, Arthur,” Captain Enjolras says, frowning without much menace.

“You are far too serious,” the lieutenant shoots back before turning back toward Javert. “Don’t tell me you are intimidated by two nine-year-olds, Javert? I’ve seen you with a sword when our ship was attacked six months ago, you were rather fierce. And despite being younger than them you keep the other men in the ship in line.”

The older man grins, teasing, but Javert still stumbles over his words.

“I…no,” he says, clearing his throat. “I am certainly not intimidated. The boys will be fine with me.”

At this Javert feels René tugging on his hand and then somehow without warning he’s down on his knees in the sand, taking directions from Frantz. As the lieutenant picks up his coat, he hears him laughing in time with Captain Enjolras, and they smile at him indulgently.

“We’ll be done in about an hour or so,” Captain Enjolras says, clasping Javert’s shoulder a moment. “And I expect to see a fully finished sand-ship.”

“Yes sir,” Javert mumbles, sounding more petulant than he likes, but feels secretly pleased despite himself. He watches as Lieutenant Combeferre picks Frantz up for a moment before departing, hugging him close, and Captain Enjolras pats his son’s cheek. Then after a moment they’re walking away toward the docks, Lieutenant Combeferre shaking his sand covered coat in Captain Enjolras’ general direction. Javert turns back toward the two nine-year-olds, who look back at him with enthusiasm beaming through their smiles.

“Javert, I need you over there,” Frantz says, pointing toward the end of the ship, where the sand crumbles away.

“Oh, I…” Javert says, remembering how Lieutenant Combeferre shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, digging into the sand.

“Hand me your jacket,” René says, seemingly reading his mind. “I can put it over here with ours.”

Javert pauses, eyes running over René’s bare arms and remembering the shouts that rang through the front door as he’d approached the Enjolras household a few weeks ago, Governor Travers’ voice ripe with anger.

_You will keep your jacket on, boy! You are the heir to this family, and you will not be out in public looking like a common worker._

“Your grandfather doesn’t like it when you are about in town without your jacket,” Javert points out, hesitating.

“My grandfather has business in Kingston today,” René says, and Javert sees the dormant embers in his eyes burning. “And Lieutenant Combeferre said it was all right, and Papa didn’t say anything. It’s okay.”

Javert nods, sliding his own off and handing it to René, who lies it carefully on top of his and Frantz’s much smaller one, though parts of it still hit the sand. Javert unbuttons his sleeves, pushing the material upward.

“No,” René says, leaving his post and coming back over to him, taking the material in his small hands and rolling it upward and over Javert’s elbow. “This is how you do it. See?”

“Yes,” Javert responds. “Thank you.”

He proceeds, rolling up the second sleeve, though the edges aren’t as smooth as the one René rolled. He looks up, listening to René and Frantz discuss their strategy, watching them and considering how different they look side by side. The light makes René’s blond hair gleam, his pale skin tanning but leaning toward red in the intense Caribbean sun, eyes as clear a blue as the shallow waters beyond them as the loose wavy curls fall over his face. Sand coats Frantz’s brown skin, the tiny pieces glittering in the sun. His short, tight black curls contrast with René’s, but his brown eyes hold the same twinkle, and though it’s obvious he takes after his mother, those eyes are Lieutenant Combeferre’s. Their physical appearances are so vastly opposite, their backgrounds existing on completely different ends of the spectrum, yet Javert sees their spirits melding together, and feels a spike of jealousy.

He has never experienced such a thing.

And yet he wonders if their society will allow such a relationship to continue forever, between the son of one of the wealthiest, most influential families in the region, and the mulatto, illegitimate son of a wealthy but rebellious EITC officer and an African woman. The rules say no, but their souls, if there are such things, say yes. Javert finds he’s unsure what to do with that.

“Javert if you could pack sand over on that end,” Frantz says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “It’s crumbling a bit.” He smile when he sees Javert hesitate, picking up a ball of sand and patting it down firm in his hands. “Like this,” he says, holding the ball out.

“You’re great at mending things on real ships,” René points out, grinning. “So this should be easy for you.”

“I appreciate your faith in my skills, René,” Javert says, a smile flickering at his lips. He’s played more games in his twenties than he ever did in his childhood, he thinks. Perhaps because he allows himself such frivolity. “Though wood is a bit sturdier than sand.”

Before he knows it they’ve completed the ship (they fixed the crumbling sail with some rather ingenious use of mud by Frantz) as the sun starts setting behind them, and as he turns around from retrieving his coat, he realizes both of the boys have fallen asleep on the sand side by side, hands outstretched toward the ship. It is, Javert thinks, the particular sleep of childhood that he cannot replicate as an adult: awake one moment and lost under Morpheus’ spell the next.

“Boys,” he says, gruff. “Boys. I should get you home, it’s getting late. Nearly time for supper.”

No response.  

“René,” he tries again. “Frantz.”

Still nothing.

He turns, hearing footsteps squashing through the damp sand behind him, hearing Lieutenant Combeferre’s voice before he sees him.

“I’m afraid they’re lost to the dream world for a while,” he says, “Michel got caught up with something, I’m afraid, something that looks like a stolen shipment. He says Astra is at home so perhaps you could take René?”

Javert watches Lieutenant Combeferre pick Frantz up off the sand, and the boy barely stirs. Javert looks from the pair back to René on the sand.

“He’s asleep,” Javert says, gaze bouncing back up to his superior.

“He is that,” Lieutenant Combeferre says, amusement in his eyes.

“How am I supposed to take him home if he’s asleep?”

“Like this,” Arthur answers, indicating his sleeping son in his arms.

“It won’t wake him?”

“Likely not, no,” Arthur replies. “They’ve been out in the sun all day.”

“I…” Javert pauses, looking back at the sleeping child in front of him. “All right.”

He reaches down, hooking his arms under René’s legs and chest, hauling upward with more force than he needs, forgetting how light the boy is compared to himself. Even still, he remains asleep.

“All right, Javert?” Arthur asks, wrapping an arm securely around Frantz, as though afraid some force of nature will pull his son away from him. A piece of paper nearly falls out of the boy’s pocket, a letter from his mother, Javert assumes, and Arthur pushes it carefully back in, fingers running over the beads of the necklace Frantz has worn since the day he arrived and never takes off. Something else from his mother, Javert knows for certain. Chantal, he thinks she’s called, but he’s only seen her from afar during the visit she made to Jamaica six months ago.

“Yes,” Javert says, looking back down at René, who shifts in his sleep, one hand reaching up to grasp the edge of Javert’s jacket as though his subconscious wants to make sure he’s secure, even in sleep. “Yes, I think so.”

“Well I will see you in the morning then,” Arthur says. “Good night.”

“Good night, sir,” Javert replies. He pauses for a moment, then begins walking the familiar path toward the Enjolras home, the sun sending streaks of red spraying across the fading amber glow.

How had it come to this? He asks himself. How was it that he’d joined Captain Enjolras’ crew three years ago, and now finds himself on child duty more often than not? It is the ultimate sign of trust from Captain Enjolras and Lieutenant Combeferre, he supposes, being so often left with their sons. He is the youngest member of the crew aside from the cabin boy, and he finds he is often called to the captain’s side for one thing or another, rising through the ranks faster than he’d expected after the incident that sent him here a few years ago. He is invited for dinner nearly as often as Lieutenant Combeferre, and far more than the other men on the ship, finding what he thinks is a mentor in the captain. Even if he didn’t know he was looking for one.

Is it possible he…belongs here?

He looks down when he feels René move, his eyes cracking open just slightly, looking confused.

“Javert?” he asks. “What…”

“I’m just taking you home,” Javert replies, using the soothing tone he’s heard from Astra, though certain his own deep voice is far less efficient than hers. “You fell asleep on the beach, but we’re nearly there. Go back to sleep.”

René nods, exhaustion soaking into him again as he closes his eyes, head resting heavily against Javert’s chest. Javert’s eyes linger on the boy’s sleeping face, and without his permission, a soft, warm feeling takes root in his chest, lightening his step. It doesn’t go away when he hands the still sleeping child to his mother, who thanks him, and as he walks away he finds several blond hairs mixed in with his own black ones, resting together against the navy blue of his jacket.

For the first time since he can remember, he goes to sleep with a smile, even if he isn’t ready to say why.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1698.**

“But why do I have to be the pirate?” René says, his voice drawn out in a childish whine. For all his maturity and that constant aura of agelessness emanating off him, sometimes René is, in fact, a nine-year-old boy.

“Because you promised me long ago that we would take turns,” Javert responds. “It is only, as you would say, fair.”

“He’s right René,” Frantz says, matter of fact as he hands them the two wooden swords, keeping one for himself and examining it as though attempting to figure out the exact makeup. “I was there. You promised twice.”

René huffs, but agrees. The ocean breeze blows hard in that moment, and René’s lengthening hair slips almost entirely out of its tie.

“Hold on a moment,” he says, putting the sword down and attempting to re-tie his hair and keep his sword from sliding down the deck at the same time, one foot holding it down.

“Here, use this!” Frantz exclaims, pulling a red kerchief out of his pocket and handing it over. “Tie it like a bandana. Pirates are always wearing bandanas in drawings. And some in real life, from what I’ve seen.”

“You’ve seen pirates?” René asks, intrigued at this vital piece of information his friend kept from him.

“They were on Haiti sometimes,” Frantz answers. He turns, looking at Javert, contemplative. “You’ve seen plenty of pirates Javert, do they really wear bandanas?”

“I confess that I don’t pay much attention to the fashion sense of pirates,” Javert responds, feeling his heart fluttering with anxiety in his chest, as though the boy’s innocent question must surely mean knowledge of his past rather than the fact that he’s fought pirates attempting to board EITC ships in the time since Frantz arrived in Port Royal and imparted the tales to both the boys. “I’m rather too busy preventing them from stealing our goods and taking over our ship.”

“There!” René says, drawing their attention back, the red bandana crossing his forehead and tied in a small knot in the back, blonde waves of hair sticking out beneath.

“Red suits you lad!” Lieutenant Combeferre calls out from across the deck where he stands with Captain Enjolras, pouring over a map. “Doesn’t it, Michel?”

Captain Enjolras turns, arching one eyebrow but smiling still.

“It does,” he answers. “Though it is quite a fashion statement, I must say.”

René smiles, shy again, and holds his sword out, furrowing his brow, red tinting his cheeks.

“Beware me, pirate,” Javert says, crossing his still comically small wooden sword over René’s, though he’s less afraid of hitting with some force now, drawn further into these games than he ever would have predicted a few years ago. Wooden swords or not, at not quite ten years old, René’s talent for swordsmanship is obvious, something that hasn’t gone unnoticed by his father, who encourages these sparring sessions. He pushes a naval career for his son while Governor Travers prefers he take his father’s place in the EITC, but either way, the sword skills are necessary.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us, Frantz?” René asks with a grin, whacking Javert’s sword again. “You’ve got the third sword.”

Frantz shakes his head, but it’s fondly intended.

“I’m fine,” he replies, watching them for a moment before his eyes fall back onto a smaller version of the map his father and Captain Enjolras peruse across the deck, eyes narrowed in thought. “I’ve got this letter from my mother to read, and this map I want to look at. After all, if you’re busy doing the fighting, someone has to steer the ship, and know navigation, don’t they?”

“Yes!” René exclaims, turning back to Javert. “Come on, you can hit harder than that.”

“I will hit as hard as I see fit, René,” Javert says, keeping mum on the fact that there is little chance that René and Frantz will ever sail together when they are grown. “I am much larger than you, remember.”

They continue back and forth across the deck for several minutes, the sounds of their swords echoing against the mast and into the sea breeze, the sun shining down on them in warm pools of golden light. Then without warning René slips on something Javert doesn’t see, and falls to the deck with a thud, sword falling out of his hand and sliding away.

“René!” Javert exclaims, and hears Frantz run over behind him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” René says, but oddly, he doesn’t get up. “There’s a loose board there. Stay in character!”

“René,” Javert insists. “You’re hurt. Your father will have my head if I ignore such a thing.”

René waves him off. “I’m not, I swear. Come on. We can’t stop the game in the middle! Someone has to win.”

Oh, Javert thinks. If only it were so simple, winning and losing.

Javert hesitates, looking over at Frantz as if hoping the boy will dissuade him. It seems that in their focus the other men didn’t hear René fall, still bent over their map as they are, frowning and speaking in whispers Javert cannot quite make out. But Frantz only nods in agreement with René, encouraging him. Javert sighs, long suffering, and turns back to René, pointing his sword at the boy’s chest.

“The victory is mine, scoundrel,” Javert says touching René’s shirt lightly with the end of the sword. “Now surrender.”

“I will never surrender to the English Navy,” René says. “Or to the East India Trading Company. I would die first.”

Javert pulls his sword back.

“I am not going to pretend to kill you, René.”

“It’s a _game_ , Javert,” René presses. “You let me pretend to kill you all the time.”

“Yes, well,” Javert says, clearing his throat, feeling a strange emotion bubble up, unbidden. “That is enough for now, I think.”

René looks as if he’s about to argue when the voices of Lieutenant Combeferre and Captain Enjolras float over in their direction and he rises from the deck, listening.  

“This pirate Fauchelevent,” Arthur says, his whisper caught in the wind and floating over. “The one who has turned over some of our supply ships…”

“And some of the slave ships,” Michel adds.

“Yes well I don’t disagree with him about that,” Arthur says, irritation grating his tone. “Though perhaps I wish it would happen through more legal means.”

“Arthur,” Captain Enjolras says, a lecture in his tone. “You cannot tell me you somehow agree with a pirate?”

Arthur ignores the reprimand. “You believe he is somehow the convict who escaped on Javert’s watch these few years ago?”

Javert freezes, feeling René’s and Frantz’s eyes on him. It feels as if tiny needles poke every inch of his skin, and the world spins around him in flashes of brilliant color.

Not this. Not again. Not _now_.

“It is not a stretch for a convict laborer to turn into a pirate,” Michel says. “And he has an African woman with him. The Valjean who escaped that ship also escaped with a slave woman who was being transported. He also fits the description, according to what Javert’s told me. They’re causing trouble all across the region. Smaller thefts at first. But now larger and larger. There are rumors that they give most of their money to the poor.” Michel scoffs. “As if any pirate would do anything but steal for themselves. Besides that, the end does not justify the means.”

Javert’s hands clench into fists at his sides. He _knew_ this would come back for him. He _knew_ this would ruin him, and now at five and twenty, all his fears ring true. The man and woman he let escape are now pirates interrupting their business and running amok. He steps forward, setting out for below deck, when he feels a smaller hand tug at the sleeve of his coat

“Are you all right, Javert?” René asks, worry in his eyes as he perceives Javert’s obvious body language.

“Yes,” Javert snaps.

René lets go, stepping back, hurt and confusion gleaming in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Javert says, realizing himself and softening his voice. “I only…I need a moment.”

René nods in understanding, and he and Frantz step back further, allowing Javert through, and within a few strides he’s below deck, hand resting on the ship wall as he inhales air, hoping he can steel himself before Captain Enjolras inevitably follows him down. He puts a trembling hand into his pocket, feeling for the only thing of his past he’s kept, for reasons he’ll never admit. He pulls out the leather bracelet made for small, childish wrists that would never fit him now. It’s covered in designs his mother put in, talented with various artistic pursuits as she was. On the inside is the word _Romani._

 _Do not be ashamed of your heritage, my son_ , his mother said one night when a privateer crew his father worked for booted them off the ship he was working on because of his wife’s Romani background, marking their final descent into the world of piracy.

_How could he be anything but?_

He looks at his skin, knowing he passes as a ‘normal’ person of French descent, but he knows his skin is not as lily white as René’s, and for a moment he envies the boy his societal approval, all blond hair and blue eyes and pale skin. No one looks at him twice, other than to comment to his mother how lovely he is. No one is suspicious. His mother tried to instill pride for his heritage in him, and yet society told him his people were only thieves, and how could he argue? He wasn’t interested in being part of such a community, because how could society at large be wrong? He runs his thumb over the word _Romani_ remembering his mother and steeling himself against the memory of her kind voice, the voice that was the only thing that made him feel safe. That is, until she left him. The door next to him swings open and he jumps, dropping the bracelet on the floor. He reaches out to pick it up, but before he can Captain Enjolras steps inside, picking it up instead.

“Sir, please,” Javert says, but the small piece of leather already rests in Captain Enjolras’ hands, his eyes falling on the word _Romani_ , before looking back up at Javert with concern.

Frustrated tears wet his eyes without warning, without his permission, without a chance for escape and he swipes at them, wiping the offending moisture away.

“Sir,” he tries again, but Captain Enjolras holds up a hand and bids him silent.

“You are of Romani descent.” He does not phrase it as a question, but rather as a statement. Either way, it is not in Javert’s repertoire to lie when directly asked.

“Yes sir,” he says, folding his hands behind his back and standing up straight, though it doesn’t quell the sick feeling in his stomach. “My mother. She gave me that when I was a child. It is the only thing I kept from the past.”

“I’d say that’s certainly true,” Captain Enjolras replies, sounding stern, but there is something like teasing in his voice. “You are a fine, upstanding, hardworking man. You do not roam about, you do not steal. You would never stoop to that.”

“Sir?”

“What I mean to say is that you do not carry the negatives of your heritage with you. You have left the past behind. You think that because of this I would no longer trust you?”

“People with my heritage are not well accepted,” Javert says, phrasing it diplomatically. “I…” he stumbles over his words uncharacteristically, and damns his heart to hell. This is what happens when you care. This is what happens when you think that perhaps, for once, you might belong somewhere. “I kept it from you because I am used to keeping it from everyone. It seemed best. Even if I shun every piece of that heritage and what it stands for, how am I to prove that?”

As ever, Captain Enjolras rests a hand on his shoulder, but his gaze is as intense as his son’s despite the age gap, and Javert cannot do anything but look back.

“You are one of my most trusted men, Nicolas,” Captain Enjolras says, and Javert does not miss the very rare use of his first name. “I cannot begrudge you your past when I know your present so well. And hope for the success of your future. You have absolutely proven yourself. I have dealt with other Romani people before. You are nothing like them.”

For a moment, Javert cannot respond, and yet his superior does not remove his gaze, contemplating him. Then, he regurgitates words he doesn’t even want to say, yet they come pushing up anyway, and he feels a rare redness warm his cheeks.

“Javert?” Captain Enjolras questions.

“I just…” he’s stuttering again, and he hates it. “Why are you so invested in me, sir?”

At this, Captain Enjolras’ expression softens further, and a smile pulls at his lips, a slightly varied version of the light he usually sees in the captain’s eyes when he looks at René twinkling in his direction.

“When I met you,” he begins, slow with his words. “I saw a young man with a great deal of potential. And I wanted to give that potential a chance. I saw a very competent sailor and combatant.” He pauses, meeting Javert’s eyes again. “And even more than that, I saw a young man looking for a place, and I felt the place might have been on my ship. And possibly as my friend. I have found both to be true.”

He clears his throat, folding his hands behind his back, but he still doesn’t look away.

“Thank you sir,” Javert all but mumbles, not trusting his voice. He pauses, regaining control and arranging his face into a more acceptable expression. “You do not blame me for Valjean and the slave woman’s escape? Even if they have become these troublesome pirates?”

Captain Enjolras shakes his head. “I do not believe, as your other superior did, that it has any bearing on your ability. Far more seasoned men than you have had similar, if not much larger escapes happen on their watch. Scoundrels are slippery, after all. They lack a moral code.”

“Yes sir,” Javert agrees. “They certainly do.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and realizing he’s still holding the bracelet, Captain Enjolras hands it back, and without sparing a glance Javert puts it back in his pocket, the small memento he can’t quite let go of still somehow feeling as if it weighs as much as iron.

“Would you care to go back up on deck?” Captain Enjolras asks, not commenting on the bracelet. “René and Frantz were a bit worried about you. But if you need a moment…”

Javert closes his eyes for a fraction of second, an emotion he cannot recognize filling him up. Gratitude? Belonging? Joy? He is not used to the two latter ones, though he is familiar with the first. Though certainly less so about the worrying. No one has worried for him in a long time.

“I’m fine,” Javert insists. “We were in the middle of a game when I overheard the news of Valjean, and René was insisting on his own dramatic death.”

“Ah,” Captain Enjolras says, a wistful smile Javert cannot quite place on his face. “He finally agreed to be the pirate, did he?”

“Bandana and all,” Javert replies. “I won’t tell him, but I think he makes a far better pirate than I do.”

Captain Enjolras chuckles at this, and they go up the steps and onto the deck.

“He is, thankfully, rather set on the Navy. So perhaps we should tell him to work on his performance.”

Javert chuckles too, and for once, even to his own ears, it sounds natural.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1699.**

When Arthur Combeferre walks up the steps to the Enjolras home to retrieve his son, he’s nearly knocked over by René.

“Woah, there,” he says, reaching out and seizing the 10-year-old’s wrist before he can get away. “Are you all right René?”

“Yes,” he responds quickly, not looking at Arthur and swiping at his eyes. “Just…just please let me go sir.”

Even though every instinct in Arthur’s body shouts at him to keep a hold of René, something in the lad’s voice makes him let go. It’s a whisper cut through with a knife, shredding it to pieces that slowly float down to the dirt. René starts running again as soon as Arthur lets go, and nearly as soon as he’s clearing the drive, Frantz runs out and stops when he sees his father, and Arthur sees Javert close on his heels.

“I have to go after René,” Frantz says, looking up. “I…”

“Slow down son,” he says crouching down and putting his hands on the sides of Frantz’s arms. “René knows his way around, nothing will happen to him, but I can’t help him unless you tell me what happened.”

Frantz tenses and Arthur slides his hands down so they hold both his son’s and squeezes them lightly. He looks around as if frightened of something, eyes darting back and forth.

“Governor Travers left out the back drive, Frantz,” Javert chimes in, answering the question before Arthur can ask. His voice is softer than Arthur usually hears it, but his face remains an undecipherable mask that Michel is much better at interpreting than he is.

Frantz breathes in, calming himself.

“René and I were down at the docks earlier,” Frantz explains. “And we were just sitting looking at the water and talking to some of the sailors docking, and it was hot, so René took his jacket off. But when we got back Governor Travers was here, and René had forgotten he was supposed to meet with him this afternoon, and Governor Travers asked where we’d been, shouted at René for not having his jacket on. And when René tried to explain where we were Governor Travers kept cutting him off and René raised his voice a little and…” Frantz looks up, eyes meeting his father’s, and his spectacles are fogging up a bit. “He slapped René in the face, Papa. Hard. René’s cheek was so red.”

“Did he do anything else?” Arthur’s eyes flicker up to Javert again, his face cracking ever so much and revealing a storm of conflict to which Arthur can’t put a name.

“He shouted more about René misbehaving. But all he did was raise his voice.” Frantz frowns, then sets his expression, deciding something. “It’s not fair.”

“I know,” he says, standing up again and squeezing Frantz’s hands before letting go. “And if you could wait here just for a bit, I’m going to find René and bring him back. Talk to him if I can.” He turns toward Javert. “Would you go and find Michel for me, Javert? I believe he’s in his office, and if he’s not busy I should like to speak to him.”

Javert nods. “Yes sir.” He hestitates, rifling around for something in his pocket and pulling out a small bracelet of beads, pieces René and Frantz worked on a little over a year ago and scarcely ever took off. “René dropped this, so…if you could just,” he clears his throat, holding the item out. “Give it to him, please.”

Arthur takes it, and reassuring his son that he’ll return in a few moments, sets off toward the docks, where he suspects René ran. It’s only a ten minute walk to the docks with the shortcuts he knows, and after a few more minutes of searching he spots René sitting at the edge of one near the end of the row that’s mostly deserted. He’s tossed his shoes and socks off, toes dipping into the warm water. Arthur walks up carefully, hoping he won’t startle the boy, but his step causes a creak in the sea-worn boards, and René jumps, looking up. He looks frightened for a moment, squinting against the sun as he realizes who he’s looking at. Once he does, a bit of the fear leaves him, but he’s still guarded.

“Oh. Hello sir,” René says, quiet. “Did you come to retrieve me?”

“Not exactly,” Arthur says, gesturing down at the space next to René on the dock. “Do you mind if I sit?”

René shakes his head, so Arthur sits. He waits a beat, and when René says nothing, merely staring out at the ocean beyond as if he wishes it could transport him somewhere else entirely, Arthur speaks instead.

“Frantz told me what happened,” he says, soft, handling his words as if they’re fragile china. “Could I take a look at your face?”

Finally, René turns and looks at him properly, and his eyes are rimmed-red from tears.

“I won’t hurt you,” Arthur emphasizes. “Do you trust me?”

René hesitates a moment, then nods. Arthur reaches his hand out, brushing his thumb against René’s cheek, something inside him twinging when the child winces. He’s always held a soft spot for René; he’s known him since he was born, even before the Enjolrases moved to the Caribbean when René was three, and he’s honored to call himself his godfather. Arthur went to boarding school with Michel, and when Michel married Astra and got the position with the EITC, he’d encouraged Arthur along. As the son of his dearest friend, his affection for René was inevitable. The fact that he and Frantz were essentially joined at the hip only made it grow.

“It hurts?” he asks.

René nods once more but doesn’t speak, and Arthur sees the tears pooling in his eyes again.

“I don’t think there will be bruising,” Arthur says, feeling his own eyes start watering, and he blinks, clearing his throat. He pulls his hand back, knowing how he’d feel if anyone laid a hand on Frantz, and decides he’ll speak to Michel. It bothers him sometimes, how much Michel lets Governor Travers dictate things, but he cannot let this go. He knows this sort of thing gets swept under the rug and covered up in families of this stature, but no matter how much someone might cry “corporal punishment” he cannot abide someone slapping a child in the face.

“I don’t…” René tries, his voice rapidly losing its foundation. “I can’t make my grandfather happy, and he was yelling at me and he wouldn’t listen and…”

Arthur hears René’s voice break, and even though the boy fights it, after a moment he starts openly crying. Out of instinct Arthur wraps his arms around René, relieved when he doesn’t flinch or pull away. He runs a hand up and down René’s back, wondering if he might also speak to Astra if Michel proves stubborn. Michel means a great deal to him and knows that he loves René, but sometimes he is blind when it comes to his father in law, which is no doubt tied to his love for his job.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Arthur tells him.

“Then why did he strike me?” René asks, pulling back, but his smaller hands grasp the sleeves of Arthur’s jacket.

“I don’t know, my boy,” Arthur says, feeling helpless. “I don’t claim to understand your grandfather, and I’m afraid is opinion of me is rather low.”

“Because of Frantz’s mother?” René asks, meeting his eyes. “Because he thinks someone with Frantz’s skin color is worth less than someone with ours?”

If the situation weren’t so dire, Arthur might have smiled at René’s perceptiveness. They might be only 10-years-old, but Arthur thinks that René and Frantz both are far more intelligent and empathetic than most grown men he knows.

“Yes,” he answers, feeling that René deserves the truth if he’s mature enough to understand. “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s not fair,” René says, and beyond the tears in the boy’s eyes Arthur thinks he sees something burning. “I don’t like the way he treats Frantz. That was part of what we were fighting about today.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Frantz didn’t tell me that. Do you mind my asking what happened?”

“He said Frantz was a bad influence,” René says, his hands letting go of Arthur’s sleeves and curling into fists. “He said I shouldn’t…that I…shouldn’t spend so much time with a _mulatto_ child and I told him that our skin doesn’t make us any better than anyone else and that Frantz was my best friend and that’s when he…that’s when he hit me.” René looks up, abrupt alarm flashing in his eyes. “Will I not be allowed to see Frantz anymore?”

“Of course you will,” Arthur says, firm, hands resting on René’s shoulders. “Never you fear that, René. No matter what happens, that is not up for debate”

They both turn when they hear footsteps behind them, lighter than a man’s boots, but no less determined.

“Astra,” Arthur says, exhaling a relieved breath. “I was just going to take René back. Did you…”

“I heard what occurred,” she says, and Arthur hears the cold fury in her voice, though it melts slightly as she smiles at him. “Thank you for coming to find him, Arthur.”

Their eyes meet for a moment, a shared understanding between them, and he hears the ice in her voice thaw entirely as she turns and speaks to her son.

“Darling are you all right?” she asks, offering her hand out to him.

“Yes,” he replies, taking it. “I think so. Lieutenant Combeferre helped.”

“He tends to,” she says, and when she looks back over at him, Arthur thinks she’s never smiled so wide in his direction.

“I was going to speak with Michel,” Arthur says. “I sent Javert looking for him.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the bracelet Javert handed him earlier. “I nearly forgot, but Javert noticed you dropped this, René.” He hands it over and René takes it, a smile flickering at his lips.

“I’ll take him home,” Astra says. “I told Frantz we’d be back in just a bit. I crossed paths with Javert on my way home, and I told him to tell Michel to wait for you in his office.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says. He stands up, but before he goes he squeezes René’s shoulder, drawing a small smile out of the boy. He watches Astra pick up her son’s shoes, watches him slip his arm through hers, and after a moment, they’ve disappeared around the bend. It is only after he can’t see them anymore that the rage at Governor Traver’s words races through him fully, hot and unchecked. He breathes in, steeling himself. He knows he can’t change the governor’s mind, he knows his opinions are considered radical, but he won’t allow anyone, even the governor, to disrespect his son or treat him like he’s lesser because of his skin color. He gets up from the dock, dusting off his trousers and making his way toward Michel’s office, which is just a few minutes’ walk from here near the other end of the docks. Anger pierces each step he takes, boiling up the top and nearly bursting by the time he reaches Michel’s office. He knocks on the office door but doesn’t wait for the call to enter before coming in.

“I must speak with you about something,” Arthur says without preamble, closing the door with a loud bang he doesn’t fully intend. “Now.”

Michel looks up from his papers, a bit bewildered by the sudden, stormy entrance, removing his reading spectacles and calmly putting them back on his desk in a manner that spikes Arthur’s anger even more.

“Javert told me to wait for you here,” Michel says, still infuriatingly calm and Arthur breathes in, calming himself. Michel doesn’t know what happened yet, so how could he feel anger? “But he didn’t indicate the specifics. Just that something occurred at the house. Are the boys all right?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Arthur says, fists clenching at his sides as if he saved all his calm for René and now the fury flows out of his every crevice.

“Arthur what happened?” Michel asks, softer now, gesturing for Arthur to sit, but he cannot. Instead he paces across the floor, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Your father in law struck René,” Arthur says. “He was very upset.”

Michel furrows his eyebrow and Arthur senses what he’s about to say before the words leave his mouth.

“Well, he is a believer in corporal punishment,” Michel says. “And René does not always do as he asks.”

“No one could fall in line with his ridiculous expectations,” Arthur spits, impatient. “Especially not a young boy. And this was not standard corporal punishment, Michel, though you know my feelings about laying hands on children. He slapped your son in the face. It was still red when I saw him a few minutes later.”

Michel frowns now, eyes narrowing.

“Is René all right? Michel asks, obvious worry brimming in his tone, and Arthur feels his anger ebb ever so slightly. “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

“Not physically. This time,” Arthur says, emphasizing the last two words. “But he’s upset and he doesn’t know why his grandfather would strike him that way. But he’s with his mother. Who is furious, I might add.”

“Did he say what caused it?” Michel asks, fingers twisting together in silent anxiety.

“Yes. Apparently the governor believes his grandson should not spend so much time with a _mulatto_ child,” Arthur says, hands grasping the edge of the desk. “René argued with him, and that resulted in the slap.”

“None of this should have happened,” Michel says, reaching out and prying one of Arthur’s hands from the desk and clasping it. “But you cannot be surprised at my father in law…”

Arthur pulls his hand back, and Michel looks back at him, surprised.

“I know how he feels about the slave trade and I know how he feels about my protests against it,” Arthur says hoping he can keep his voice even. “I know how he feels about my affair with Chantal and Frantz as the result. I know how he feels about me not sweeping it under the rug and abandoning them. But mark my words Michel, I don’t care what the cost to myself, he will not say things like that in front of my son. Not while I live and breathe.”

Michel opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur holds up a hand, and Michel falls quiet, letting him finish.

“And your boy stood up for Frantz and if you won’t stand up for him Michel, I will. René has fire in him, and if you think he’s not going to go up against the governor, then you’re fooling yourself. I know how much this job means to you. I understand. But you cannot let your father in law treat him this way. I know already how Astra feels about it. And René is terrified Governor Travers will disallow him from seeing Frantz.”

Arthur breaks off, breathing hard, not realizing he’d forgotten about coming up for air. Michel slowly reaches his hand out, clasping Arthur’s once more, and Arthur allows it.

“No matter what happened, I would never allow my father in law to separate René and Frantz,” Michel says, and Arthur hears the sincerity in his tone. “And I would never separate them.”

Arthur grasps his friend’s hand tighter, desperate as though he feels Michel slipping away from him, from who he is, the higher his rises in the ranks of the EITC, as he amasses more wealth.

“What about the rest?”

“I will speak to him,” Michel says, firm. “He will not speak that way about Frantz again in front of him. I cannot hope to change his mind overall, but I will promise you that will not happen again.”

“And about René?”

Michel taps the fingers of his free hand on his desk and clenches his jaw, torn as he’s been lately, between family and his career, afraid that should he displease the governor he will lose his position. Arthur doesn’t believe the governor would go so far as to cause such a spectacle, but it still worries Michel. But his expression gives way, and concern for his son manifests itself in the way his eyes light up even as the lines on his face grow taut.

“I will let him know that slapping René in the face is not an acceptable form of discipline,” he says. “And have a discussion about what warrants discipline in the first place. René may be his grandson, but he’s my son.”

Arthur nods, squeezing Michel’s hand before letting go.

Michel clears his throat, looking at Arthur with that piercing gaze he so often sees on René’s features.

“You are a better man than me, I’m afraid,” Michel says, a half smile lifting one corner of his lips upward.

“Oh hush,” Arthur says, rising from his chair. “Let’s say we go check on our sons, hmm? And tell poor Javert he can go to his own rooms. He rather ends up in the middle of things, doesn’t he?”

“I think he likes it,” Michel says, fully smiling now. “Well, less so something like this, but he’s become a part of the family. I don’t think he’s ever really had one, and he’s a smart lad. He’ll do well.”

“He will if René and Frantz don’t drive him mad first,” Arthur says, pushing the door open.

“I think he secretly likes that too,” Michel says. “Even if they run confusing circles around him most of the time.”

Arthur laughs at that, feeling his heart lift a little, though his chest feels heavy with an anxious anticipation that sinks down like a stone. He looks over at Michel, trying to chase it away, but can’t quite manage it.

“All right?” Michel asks, looking over and tilting his head in question as they walk.

“Yes,” Arthur says, smiling. “Yes I think so.”

They walk in a companionable silence for most of the short walk to the Enjolras home, the quiet interspersed with snatches of conversation. Once they reach the door and go inside, the mood of the room is obvious, thick with nervous tension, and Arthur doesn’t miss the way both René and Frantz jump when the door swings open, obviously worried Governor Travers is on the other side. Astra must have sent Javert home, because only she sits at the table with them, a puzzle of some sort spilled out in front of them as a futile distraction.

“Papa,” Frantz says almost immediately, getting up from his chair and walking over to his father, hugging him around the waist as he had done so often when he was younger, and Arthur returns it, but keeps an eye on Michel and his family from over his son’s shoulder.

Astra eyes her husband, and Arthur doesn’t miss the tinge of frustration he sees in her gaze. It is not complete anger, but Arthur senses that it could be if something like this happens again. And something in the way his heart twinges tells him it will. René is only a child yet, but he can already see the battle lines between grandfather and grandson being drawn, with Michel in between.  

“Michel,” she says, fighting to keep the impatience out of her voice, and her eyes flicker over toward him for a moment before falling back on her husband. “You spoke to Arthur?”

“I did,” he says, meeting her eyes, and squeezing her hand briefly before turning to his son and diverting the conversation, but succinctly letting her know he was informed of the situation.

René shrinks back into his chair, one hand reaching over to clasp his other arm, fingers curling over his elbow, prepared for his father’s lecture.

But it doesn’t come.

“Are you all right, my boy?” Michel asks, soft, but there’s something odd in his voice that Arthur can’t put his finger on.

For a moment René looks as if he will say no, as if he will start crying again as he had in Arthur’s embrace on the docks. But something flickers in his face, and he sits up straighter, watching as his father takes the hand grasping his elbow and pulls it back into his own.

“Yes,” René says after a moment. “I think so.”

“Does your cheek hurt?” Michel asks, matter of fact.

“Not anymore,” René answers shaking his head.

Michel pauses, gazing at his son with love in his eyes, but there’s something else there too, something Arthur doesn’t like, as if Michel sees the boy in front of him as a piece of a puzzle, much like the one scattered all across the table. René is the only heir to the family name, and the pressure surrounding that fact is so intense that Arthur feels it boiling inside the house, a strict rule of law imposed on a mere child who shouldn’t have any reason for worrying over such things. And if the burn he sees in the boy’s eyes is any indication, he will not bow to expectation. And perhaps even more so, he will not bow to the rules of society at large. Michel lets go of René’s hand and reaches up, placing both hands on his son’s shoulders, not missing when René flinches.

“I will not strike you son,” Michel says, gentler now. “I promise. I will speak to your grandfather about doing so.”

René nods again, reaching out and hugging his father, his touch containing a desperation Arthur doesn’t like seeing in a ten-year-old. Michel gathers René into his arms, pressing him close, and closing his eyes. Yet when he opens them, there is a storm of conflict.

“I will still be allowed to see Frantz?” René asks, looking at his father before turning around, eyes flitting over his best friend, and Arthur watches Frantz smile back.

“Yes of course,” Michel says. “That was never a question. It will never be a question.”

Arthur’s worry eases a bit at those words and the sincerity they’re wrapped in, but there are too many other questions on the horizon that remain woefully unanswered.  

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1700.**

Enjolras watches Combeferre pace back and forth across the floor, frowning so deeply that lines etch into his face, creating the aura of him being a good deal older than a fresh eleven.

“Frantz?” Enjolras questions, careful with his words. “Do you want to sit down?”

“My mother didn’t show up,” he says in response, turning on his heels and facing Enjolras, who sees the tears shining in his eyes, even as he removes his glasses, wiping them away. “She said…she does not break promises.”

“Perhaps her ship was delayed,” Enjolras answers, though something in his gut tells him his friend is right, tells him that something went wrong even if he can’t come up with the specifics.

“A week delayed?” Comebeferre asks. “The trip from Haiti to Jamaica takes three and half days at the fastest and up to five days, depending on the current and the wind and the type of ship she’s on, so a day or two late maybe but a week is too much. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Could she have fallen ill?” Enjolras tries again, grasping at explanations.

“Her letter saying so probably would have arrived by now,” Combeferre says. “And even if she was…I haven’t seen her in nearly a year. She would have come anyway.”

Combeferre looks up, and Enjolras has never seen this much uncertainty swimming in his friend’s eyes, and it unsettles him. Combeferre gathers the fabric of his trousers in his fists, and when he removes them there is residual sweat left behind in streaks, darkening the fabric.

“What is she was in a shipwreck?” Combeferre whispers, looking back up at Enjolras, seeking the reassurance he rejected a moment ago. “What if she was…” he stops, looking back down at the carpet, a fear in his eyes Enjolras doesn’t understand the root of. He waits a moment, but Combeferre doesn’t continue.

“What if she was what, Frantz?” Enjolras asks, confused but gentle still.

“Sold into slavery.” Combeferre looks up again, his voice a whisper that somehow rings through the room with its gravity, and it’s then Enjolras realizes his friend’s hands are trembling, a flash of fury like lightning in his eyes.

“But she’s free?” Enjolras questions, confused. “How could that happen?”

“If she didn’t have her freedom papers with her,” Combeferre answers, anger cutting through his words, not at Enjolras, but at the truth of his answer. “It’s happened before. People just going missing, there one day and not the next, sent off on a ship somewhere. It happened to people I knew.”

His voice cracks as he speaks, and Enjolras reaches out in their well-practiced fashion, squeezing Combeferre’s fingers in comfort. They’d begun it early on in their friendship every time Enjolras’ grandfather shouted, and eventually, started striking him. Enjolras feels a fire scorch through his blood at the idea that something so horrible could happen to Combeferre’s mother, a fire he feels more and more often now. One that gets him in trouble with his grandfather, and by extension, his father.

“That’s horrible,” he finally says, wishing he could articulate how he feels, but finds that despite the overwhelming feels building up in his chest, he cannot. “Is your father worried?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answers. “He doesn’t want me to know it, but he is.”

“Did that…” Enjolras pauses, hoping he doesn’t upset Combeferre. “Did that happen to anyone you knew well?”

Combeferre nods, a faraway look in his eyes. “My mother’s friend, Fantine. It was about a year or so before I came here, but I remember. She’d fallen in love with a white man, like my mother did. But he was terrible. My mother thought there was a ring of slave traders in that area capturing free Africans. But…I can’t quite remember his name now, but I think it started with a T? Anyway, he found out Fantine was with child and snapped. Didn’t want the responsibility. He had her framed as a runaway slave and as soon as the baby girl was weaned, so my mother, said, they took the little girl away and he put her in the care of some people running a lodging house on Haiti. And Fantine was put to work in the sugar fields. We never saw her again after that.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Enjolras replies, horrified. “Except that makes me angrier than I…”

He stops, hearing a creak on the stairs, anxiety socking into his stomach at the sound, worrying that his grandfather arrived and heard them speaking. He rubs at the back of his scalp, the skin still store from where his grandfather yanked him by the hair two days ago, a punishment for thanking one of the house slaves.

_You are not to thank them, René, he’d said. They are here to serve you. They are beneath you. Do you understand me?_

For his refusal to respond, he’s received a second yank.

There’s a knock at the door, signaling that it is not, in fact, the governor.

“Boys?” comes the voice of Combeferre’s father. “Might I come in?”

“Yes,” Enjolras calls out, and the door opens. The lieutenant shows them his normal smile, but he’s wan, Enjolras notices, and there are purple smudges under his eyes, a messy painting of fatigue.

“Your father and I have finished preparing for the journey tomorrow,” he says, looking at Enjolras, then over at his son. “And I thought you both might like to go down to the shore for a bit, since you’re done with your lessons for the day? I won’t be seeing you for three weeks or so.”

“Yes!” Combeferre exclaims, enthused, but Enjolras watches disquiet flicker in his eyes. He likes sailing as much as Enjolras does, but it’s not just sadness at not going on the journey. Enjolras feels the same sensation prickling in the pit of his stomach that he sees in his friend’s eyes. When their fathers and Javert leave Combeferre stays with Enjolras and his mother, which is peaceful until his grandfather comes by, which he does far more often when their fathers are out on journeys, announcing that there is need of a man about the house. And no matter his mother’s efforts, arguments always arise, even when Enjolras does as his grandfather demands.

Lieutenant Combeferre smiles at his son’s excitement and tousles his hair, turning back to Enjolras.

“I tried to get your father to join us, but he had a pile of paperwork, apparently,” he says, his lips pulling down into a frown for just a moment. “And then a meeting with your grandfather.”

“My grandfather probably wants to tell him about my misbehaving the other day,” Enjolras mutters, but he knows the lieutenant hears him. He also knows he heard Combeferre’s father arguing quietly with his own the other day behind closed doors, and he heard his own name leave each of their mouths several times.

Arthur turns, his boots making a scratching sound on the wood, and reaches down, running his thumb quickly over Enjolras’ cheek in a gesture of affection Enjolras sees him use with Combeferre all the time.

“I know I shouldn’t encourage you to disobey your grandfather,” he says, and the cadence of his voice sounds a bit like the same one Enjolras hears in his mother’s. The same understanding. The same frustration at the situation and sometimes, at his father. “I know what happens when you do. But you weren’t misbehaving. You were standing up for what is right. And that is brave.”

 _I’m not_ , Enjolras wants to say. _You’re brave. Frantz is brave_. _My mother is brave_. But he doesn’t, because he cannot argue with the warmth in the lieutenant’s voice. Not for the first time, he’s more thankful than he can say that Arthur Combeferre is his godfather.

“Thank you,” he says instead, offering a smile.

“You are most welcome,” Arthur says. “Now, we should go. I pulled Javert away from his work, and that is small enough miracle that we shouldn’t make him wait or he’ll go straight back to it.”

“You pulled Javert away from his work?” Combeferre asks gazing up at his father, impressed. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Arthur chuckles. “Well, he’s far too young to never do anything but work, and as he and your father are partly cut from the same cloth, René, it falls to me to remind the both of them there is more to life. Besides, though he doesn’t like to admit it, he enjoys spending time with the two of you.”

“René made him admit it once,” Combeferre, says, taking his father’s tri-corner hat when it’s offered and putting it on his own head. It’s far too large, but it stays.

“Took some doing,” Enjolras answers. “But I knew it already.”

Arthur laughs even louder at this, and the sound echoes down the staircase and bounces in Javert’s direction.

“What is so amusing?” Javert asks, arching one eyebrow.

“Oh. Nothing,” Enjolras answers, arching one eyebrow back at him, teasing.

“You are teasing me again,” Javert replies, half phrased as a question.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, grinning.

Javert scowls, but cannot hold it, and Enjolras sees the fondness in his eyes. With that the four of them set out, chatting amiably and complaining about the heat as they walk toward the shore. That is, until Enjolras hears the voice, and he watches the color drain from Lieutenant Combeferre’s face as he reaches over out for Combeferre’s hand of some kind of instinct Enjolras doesn’t understand just yet, squeezing it tight.

“Sold! To the highest bidder.”

Now he watches Comebeferre tense, moving even closer to his father, anger and anxiety mixing together in a potent concoction in his eyes.

Sold?

After a moment of confusion the pieces fly together in his mind, and he feels his stomach drop.

A slave auction.

Lieutenant Combeferre lets go of Combeferre’s hand, turning to face him and placing both of his hands on his son’s arms, and Enjolras notices they tremble just enough so it’s visible, and the sight disturbs him.

“Do you have your freedom papers?” he asks Combeferre, fear and a kind of desperation splitting the edge of his voice. “Are they in your pocket?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answers, immediate, tense and responding to his father’s fear.

“Show them to me,” Arthur says, and seeing his son’s apprehension, swallows back some of the alarm roaring in his eyes. “Please. I just want to make sure.”

Combeferre reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out the neatly folded papers he always carries around with him, never forgetting.

“Good,” Arthur says, voice falling to a whisper. “Good. Let’s just…let us walk and…I need to see something.”

The boys and Javert follow, not questioning, though Enjolras notices Javert’s expression betraying his unease. They auction appears before them as they round the corner, and they find themselves at the edge of the large crowd. Enjolras has never seen a slave auction before, and if the sight before him is any indication, he wishes they hadn’t stumbled upon this one. He sucks in a breath as he looks at the slaves, some who stand on the auction block while others are gathered in a pen behind like animals. Even to his young eyes, it’s obvious how mistreated they’ve been, because despite the shining skin from something he assumes must be grease, and the new clothes they’re wearing, he cannot miss their ill, yellowed eyes, their posture steeped with exhaustion, and some of them looking as if they haven’t seen proper food their entire lives. Some of the men and women look stronger than others, but none of them look healthy, even if the people purchasing them might think so. Or fool themselves into thinking so. He watches as someone buys one of the male slaves from the block, hearing the piercing wail of one of the women in response, and mixed with the crying of the child at her skirts, the sound stabs his heart and twists, the metaphorical knife stuck in the wound.

He feels sick, feels the nausea burn its way up his throat and he closes his eyes, willing it back. This shouldn’t happen to anyone, not ever, but the image of Combeferre up on that block makes him so upset and so hot with anger than he feels his skin grow warmer as his heart thuds hard in his chest.

“Javert,” Lieutenant Combeferre says, facing the younger man. “I need you to stay here with the boys for a moment, please. Do not move. Do not let Frantz out of your sight.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, nodding, and even if Javert doesn’t recognize it as such, Enjolras sees a fraction of worry flare in his gray eyes.

“Frantz,” the lieutenant says, speaking to his son once more. “Stay here. Do not leave René and Javert for any reason, and hold your papers in your hands. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes Papa,” he says, squeezing his father’s hand in an attempt at reassurance, and it draws an inch of a smile out of Arthur. “I won’t move. I swear.”

Arthur squeezes back, and Enjolras watches him go, silently moving along the edge of the crowd until he can get a look at the slaves up for auction.

“He’s looking for my mother,” Combeferre whispers into Enjolras’ ear, his voice shaking. “He won’t say it. But that’s what he was doing.”

Enjolras loops his arms through Combeferre’s in response, pulling him close so that their sides touch. If they ever try taking his friend, they will go through him first. Lieutenant Combeferre returns after a few minutes, relief on his face but his hands clenched at his sides.

“She wasn’t there?” Combeferre asks.

“No,” the lieutenant responds, weary. “It is good news, but…” he trails off, not really needing to finish his sentence.

Combeferre squeezes Enjolras’ arm then lets go, looping his arm through his father’s. They continue their walk to the shore, but Enjolras has never seen Lieutenant Combeferre less jolly, no matter how he tries for them. Combeferre sits with Enjolras on the edge of the shore for a long time, the water running up over their feet and then falling back again. They watch Javert walk up and down, hands behind his back as ever, but deep in thought. Lieutenant Combeferre joins them after a bit, giving little care for his uniform in the damp sand as he sits down. It’s quiet for a few moments, until Combeferre speaks up, and Enjolras sees the tears glistening in his eyes.

“It’s not fair,” Combeferre says, voice rough with sadness. “It’s not fair that people with my skin color should have to worry about their family going missing or being sold into slavery. It’s not fair that that family we saw was ripped apart. It’s not…” His voice breaks, and simultaneously his father wraps his arms around him, Enjolras’ hand resting on his back.

“I know,” Arthur says, resting his head on top of son’s and for the first time, Enjolras sees a few tears leak from the older man’s eyes. “It shouldn’t be this way.” Enjolras sees something resolve in the lieutenant’s eyes, and he suspects there will be more arguments between his father and Combeferre’s.

That night as he lays in bed, Enjolras’ sleep is anything but peaceful, his nightmares haunted by visions of the auctioneer tearing the slave family apart, the awful, agonized screams of the woman and the wailing of the child still rooted in his heart. Even worse, visions of Combeferre on that block invade his mind, and he jolts awake, bolting upward, his forehead beaded with sweat. For reasons he couldn’t explain if he tried, he remembers sword-fighting with Javert on the deck of his father’s ship, the bandana tied around his head, playing at being a pirate. He shakes his head and the memory runs away, but in that moment, as the wispy smoke of his nightmares cloud his mind, he swears he will do whatever it takes to keep Combeferre safe. No matter what that takes.

 


	3. Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anddd introducing Courfeyrac! Remember that's coming when you maybe want to throw rocks at me during part of this chapter. Warning for an original character death.

**Sailing by Orion’s Star**

**Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 3**

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1700.**

“You use the backstaff to measure the altitude of the sun at noon,” Combeferre says, committing the information to memory. “And that measures the latitude, which is north and south?”

“Right,” his father says, leaning over to point at something on the chart, his shadow covering the page. “You can also use other celestial bodies like Polaris, or the north star, when crossing the meridian.”

“Polaris is one of the brightest stars!” Combeferre exclaims, enthusiastic at this lesson. “Mama told me that.”

“She and I used to look at the stars a great deal,” Arthur says, and Combeferre hears the nostalgia in his father’s voice. He knows that his father offered to give up his upcoming commission to East India for his mother, offered to give up his life and his money, but his mother put her foot down, especially when they found out she was with child. She was able to get by on her own, but his father’s money also made things a great deal easier, even if it meant they didn’t see him often. The world, he’d learned, was cruel to women raising children out of wedlock, especially if they bore her skin. He remembers asking his mother one day why she couldn’t marry his father, remembers the tears in her eyes, and even then he’d been confused and shocked when he found out it wasn’t legal because they were of different races. He shakes the unpleasant thought away, turning back to the lesson.

“Polaris is used for navigation largely because it stands almost motionless,” his father continues. “Longitude, I’m afraid, is a bit more difficult to measure because of the movement of the earth. It’s largely based, currently, on the movement of our moon or the position of Jupiter’s moons. But it’s one of the great puzzles mariners would like to solve. There is one method called dead-reckoning that I’ll show you next time we sail together.”

“Can you show René too?” Combeferre asks. “I think he might like to learn a bit of that.”

“Of course,” Arthur says, chuckling fondly. “The more the merrier.”

Combeferre blinks against the sun, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve before the salty moisture drops down into his eyes.

“Papa?” he asks. “Could we move into the shade of that tree over there? I’m going to be soaked through if we don’t.”

“Of course,” his father says, picking up the books and papers he’s using to teach Frantz about sea navigation and moving over to the tree, his eyes darting over toward where Enjolras and Javert spar.

“Is everything all right there?” Arthur asks, nodding his head toward the pair. “René is hitting back with a bit more force than usual.”

Combeferre frowns, looking over. He sees an increasingly familiar look on Enjolras’ face, lines of frustration overtaking the usual spark of enthusiasm in his eyes, though both hold their own particular brand of intensity.

“René is angry at Javert,” Combeferre says.

“Given the bewildered look on Javert’s face, he doesn’t know that,” Arthur answers. “Javert is not the most in-tune with body language, but nevertheless. Why is René angry?”

“He…” Combeferre looks up, hesitating, though he supposes that since he was caught, the sneaking out was no longer a secret.

“It’s all right,” his father says, and that familiar feeling of safety coats him. He looks at his father’s face for a moment, seeing the layers of exhaustion there. He’s been taking a great deal of his free moments looking for his mother, and yet there is no trace of her. The combination of that, his work, his duties as a father, and his attempts at intervention in the Enjolras household leave him tired, Combeferre knows.

“René snuck out,” Combeferre says. “Last night. Not to do anything bad, he just couldn’t sleep and wanted a walk on the shore. But it was late and Javert caught him and brought him home and woke up Captain Enjolras.”

“Hmm,” Arthur says, contemplative. “Michel had a meeting this morning that didn’t require me, so I haven’t spoken to him yet today. Which I suppose is why I hadn’t heard.”

“René said Captain Enjolras shouted for a long time,” Combeferre says, tracing patterns in the sand with his finger. “René was upset.”

“Michel isn’t usually a shouter,” Arthur says, but he can’t hide his frown. “I’m sure he was worried about René being out that late. I’m sure Javert was worried.”

“I think they just want to keep René locked up in a cage,” Combeferre mutters before he can stop himself.

He feels his father’s hand on his arm, looking up to find a smile rather than a reprimand. Arthur put his arm out to the side and places the charts and backstaff beside him on the sand, signaling for his son to come sit next to him. Combeferre does, feeling safe as his father’s strong arm wraps around his shoulders.

“You know I’m trying to do what I can to help René don’t you?” Arthur asks, lowering his gaze so he meets his son’s eyes. “I love him very much.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, leaning heavily against his father. “I just…the governor is so terrible and Madam Enjolras tries, but he won’t listen, and Captain Enjolras just…” he trails off, unwilling to finish that sentence.

“I am trying with Michel,” Arthur says, brushing a stray curl out of Combeferre’s eyes. “I…he did not used to be so concerned with the rules or with what people thought. His father in law, his position...they’ve brought that out in him and I don’t like the way it’s affecting René. I won’t lie to you about that.”

“He’s your closest friend,” Combeferre points out.

“He is,” Arthur says. “But you’ll find sometimes you can disagree and argue with even the people most important to you.”

Combeferre furrows his eyebrows, and for some reason this makes his father laugh.

“I’ve never even argued with René,” he says. “I can’t imagine it.”

“Well perhaps you won’t,” Arthur says, grinning. “But even if you did, it wouldn’t mean he’s not your dearest friend.”

Combeferre nods, but then looks back out at René and Javert, watching Javert’s expression grow frustrated at René’s hard swings.

“Frantz?” Arthur asks, concerned.

“I just…” Combeferre tries. “I don’t like watching them cage René. It’s not the same, but I…I know what a cage feels like. So many things I’m not allowed to do. Places I’m not allowed to go. Fearing sometimes that I’ll lose my freedom simply because I have this skin color and this heritage. And I’m luckier than most because I have you. You didn’t abandon me and my mother.”

“I couldn’t,” Arthur says, and Combeferre hears his father’s voice crack just a bit. “I would never. And I’m looking for your mother. You know that? Your mother has one of the most beautiful spirits I’ve ever met.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, blinking back tears that abruptly fill his eyes, fingers instinctually touching the necklace his mother made him before he left Haiti, and he misses the island where he grew up with a strong tug of memory. “I know. And even though I know René has everything you’re supposed to want, he still doesn’t have that much choice in his life because he doesn’t want the one offered to him. Society approves of him, but he’s still in a cage. He wouldn’t like me saying this, he’d say it didn’t matter compared to things like how I’ve been treated by his grandfather, how those slaves at the auctions are treated, but it still matters to me. And the governor needs to stop striking him and saying terrible things to him. Captain Enjolras needs to _do_ something.”

His father looks at him, cupping his cheek with his hand, affection and pride in his eyes.

“You are a compassionate, brave lad my boy,” he says. “I…”

His words drop when they hear Javert’s raised voice, sounding something akin to a growl.

“René, that is too hard,” he says, swinging his sword out to the side. “I’ve told you already.”

“Or perhaps you simply can’t keep up,” Enjolras shoots back.

“I can’t keep up with a boy who turned eleven last week?” Javert shouts, giving into his anger. “I don’t think that’s the answer. That’s enough for now, we’re done until you can calm down.”

Enjolras tosses his sword into the sand. “Or you’ll just go tell my father, I’m sure,” he says, taking his hat off the rock and stalking off toward the water.

“René,” Javert tries, reaching out for Enjolras’ arm.

“Leave me alone,” Enjolras snaps, pulling his arm away.

Javert watches him go, huffing, then looks over at them, realizing he’s being watched, and sits down on the rock, resting his chin in his hands and sighing loudly.

“Well,” Arthur says after a moment. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Javert is firm about what he feels the rules are, and René, well.” He makes an explanatory hand gesture in the air. “I should go talk to Javert. He doesn’t seem to know quite why René is angry with him.”

“Can I?” Combeferre asks.

“Certainly, son,” Arthur says, lifting his arm so Combeferre can get up from the sand. “I’ll keep an eye on René from here.”

Combeferre dusts his pants off and walks the short distance over to Javert, who looks exceedingly uncomfortable at the idea of conversation, his dark eyes narrowed as he toys with a button on his uniform, an odd habit for a man who almost never fidgets.

“If you don’t mind Frantz, I’m not much in the mood for company,” he says, voice sharp with irritation.

“This will just take a minute,” Combeferre says, then delves into the subject at hand before Javert can counter. “You know René looks at you a bit like a brother, right?”

Javert’s eyes widen, and he looks up at Combeferre, bewildered.

“He looks at you that way,” Javert answers. “I understand he cares about me, but I am…”

“Like an older brother,” Combeferre says, interrupting. “He’s told me so himself. It’s why he’s angry at you.”

“He’s angry at me because I’m like his brother?” Javert asks, bewildered, and Combeferre almost laughs at the childlike tone in the man’s voice. Sometimes, he thinks, he knows more about interacting with people at nearly eleven than Javert does at six and twenty.

“He’s angry at you because you caught him last night and took him to his father,” Combeferre explains. “Brothers aren’t supposed to do that.”

Javert’s mouth forms a line, his black eyebrows joining together.

“Well, if I am like his brother, then I should have done exactly what I did,” he says. “I did what was best for him.”

Combeferre sighs. “Listen, if you cannot tell him you’re sorry, can you at least tell him you understand why he’s angry? It will help. Unless you’d like him to remain angry.”

“He was hitting far too hard and misbehaving,” Javert insists, petulant. “Perhaps I’m the one who should be angry.”

“Javert.”

Javert sighs again, rolling his eyes. “All right. I’ll go speak with him.” He gets up, his eyes flitting over to Arthur and the pile of books and navigational tools next to him. “Your father’s teaching you navigation, then?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, trying to stop himself from smiling at what he hopes was his success at getting Javert to talk to Enjolras.

“Well,” Javert says, clearing his throat and adjusting his coat. “I think you’ll be a natural.”

“What?” Combeferre asks, unable to keep from grinning in amusement. “Was that a compliment from _you_ , Javert?”

“Oh stop teasing me,” Javert says. “René has rubbed off on you.”

“Or me on him,” Combeferre replies, raising one eyebrow.

“There is no telling,” Javert grumbles.

With that Javert walks away and Combeferre rejoins his father, who looks up with a hopeful smile.

“You were successful it looks like?” he asks. “I see Javert is going to talk to René?”

“He is,” Combeferre says, sitting back down next to his father. “He’s not going to apologize, exactly, but he’s going to explain that he understands why René is angry. He apparently didn’t know that René looks at him like an older brother. A strange older brother. But still an older brother.”

Arthur laughs, genuine, and it warms Combeferre as it always does. Yet as he sees the mirth in his father’s eyes his heart twinges for missing his mother, anxiety cutting into the moment of joy. They cannot find her, and in his darkest moments he wonders if they ever will. Silently he swears to himself that if she has been stolen by slave runners, he will find her and he will rescue her.

“Oh Javert,” his father says, drawing him back to the moment at hand. “It is a daily exercise in teaching him that he is allowed to be a person, I think.” He looks back down at Combeferre. “Say, how would you feel if René stayed with us tonight? I think he could use a night away from that house.”

Combeferre grins. “Yes! But I don’t know if Captain Enjolras will allow him out after last night.”

“Ah,” Arthur says, raising up a finger. “I have a particular sway with Michel. He hardly ever says no to me. We are like family, so I think it would be all right.”

They look up again, hearing hesitant laughter off in the distance. Off in the distance Enjolras smiles, a faded, weak version of the real one, but he’s laughing at something Javert is saying, and although Javert isn’t quite smiling, there is a twinkle in his eyes.

“Did Javert…make a joke?” Combeferre asks.

“It would appear so,” Arthur answers, mouth dropped open an eyebrows raised. “Well there is a first time for everything isn’t there?” Arthur arranges his face as they approach, trying not to laugh. “Hello you two. Everything all right?”

“Quite,” Javert answers, patting Enjolras awkwardly on the shoulder as he does, but Enjolras looks pleased nevertheless.

“René,” Arthur says, drawing attention away from the slight tension still resting in the air. “I was thinking you might like to stay with us tonight? What do you think?”

Combeferre watches René’s slightly dulled eyes light up again, the blue nearly matching the water lapping at the shore just beyond them.

“If you don’t mind having me,” he says, soft. “I would love that.”

“You are practically my second son,” Arthur says, standing up and brushing himself off, offering his hand to help Combeferre up. “You are never a bother. Javert, do you know what time Michel was set to be done with his meeting?”

“He should be done now I believe,” Javert answers. “I was set to meet with him after.”

“We will all walk over together then,” Arthur says. “I’m sure my request won’t take long.”

They walk over, and when they arrive find Michel alone in his office. Arthur knocks, but Combeferre notices he doesn’t really wait for a response before entering.

“Ah hello,” Captain Enjolras says, looking up at them over the tops of his reading spectacles. “Something the matter? I was only expecting Javert.”

“Nothing at all,” Arthur says. “I was just coming by to ask if René might stay at our house tonight. The boys would both be pleased if you said yes.”

Combeferre watches Michel frown ever so slightly, perhaps knowing that Arthur is now privy to the events of last night, before his eyes flicker to Enjolras, whose arms are crossed over his chest, eyes darting up to meet his father’s before looking back down again. A smile flits onto Michel’s face for a moment before he looks away from his son and back over at Arthur and Combeferre.

“I don’t see why that would be a trouble,” he finally says. “Astra has a function with some other ladies in town this evening, and I’d intended to work late. René would be much better entertained with you, I’m sure.”

“Splendid,” Arthur says. “Well we will just stop by your house and pick up some clothes and be on our way. If you weren’t so busy you could come join us, Michel?”

“Perhaps later,” Michel answers, smiling at his friend. “You are persuasive.”

Arthur nods and the three of them turn to go, but Michel calls out one last time, his words directed at René.

“Have a good time tonight, all right son?” he asks, his voice tinged with a pleading Combeferre doesn’t quite understand.

Enjolras turns, a brief smile for his father on his lips. “I will, father,” he says. “Thank you for letting me go.”

He does not, Combeferre notices, call him Papa. He catches his father sending a surprised look in Michel’s direction, but when Combeferre chances a glance back at Captain Enjolras, his expression is inscrutable but for a glint of troubled concerned in his eyes in a silent attempt at communication with his friend. With that they walk out into the dying sunlight, the sky glowing orange-red.

“Your favorite, Frantz,” Enjolras says, elbowing him teasingly in the side. “It’s casting shadows.”

“That is his favorite,” Arthur says. He holds out both his arms, indicating that each of them should take one. They do, and as his father holds tightly to each of them, the sun making their shadows tall in front of them, Combeferre wishes the moment could last forever.

* * *

**Near Port Royal, Jamaica. 1700.**

Silence reigns over the ship as Enjolras steps out from below deck, drawn toward his father at the wheel. Michel looks more casual than usual, and Enjolras supposes it’s because most of the men aren’t paying attention. His coat hangs on the rail next to him, his sleeves rolled up against the humid evening, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. He still wears his hat, but his normally pristine hair slips out of its tie as Enjolras’ often does, and for some reason this small thing gives him a feeling of kinship, memories of years past when this was not such a rare sight. When he was younger he ran to his father with abandon and without any cares in the world. But now…he shakes his head, gathering his courage and stepping forward.

“Papa?” he asks, using the old endearment instead of the more current address of ‘father’ he’s become used to.

Michel turns, hands still secure on the wheel, and smiles. Actually, fully smiles so that the light reaches his eyes, which are a mirror reflection of Enjolras’ own.

“René,” he says, gesturing him forward. “I didn’t even hear you, and it’s quiet out. Learning to be a spy without my knowledge?”

“My step is lighter,” Enjolras replies. “Javert was teaching me some footwork when we were sparring earlier.”

“I saw a bit of that,” his father answers. “You get more adept by the day. It runs in our genes, I think.”

“That’s what Lieutenant Combeferre says,” Enjolras adds. “He said you taught him, and he was hopeless.”

Michel laughs, and the sound echoes against the dark sky. There is a solitary slice of moonlight bright enough so they can see each other, but the stars are mostly obscured by the clouds, and Orion disappeared hours ago.

“He gives me a bit too much credit. He is a better shot than a swordsman, but he was not hopeless. We each have our strengths, don’t we? Perhaps he’s not as graceful a swordsman as me, but he can aim far better.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “He was teaching Frantz just before we left on this journey. He shot all the targets!”

Silence wedges between them, and for a moment they stand, both gazing out at the sky, clouds tinged blue by the darkness, plastered in wispy streaks against the black.

“I’m glad Frantz and I got to come on this journey,” Enjolras tries, and his father looks back over at him. “I’m always sorry to leave Mother on her own, but I missed sailing, and it means…” he stops, cutting his sentence off.

 _It means I am not around grandfather_ , is what he doesn’t say, but can’t quite make himself. Several weeks have passed without a physical incident, and Enjolras supposes it was because the last time it happened his grandfather backhanded him, leaving a small bruise on his cheek. It was the first visible sign of injury and either the governor knew he’d gone too far- bruises were observable to other people, after all- Or perhaps his father had stepped in. Enjolras didn’t know which. But it hadn’t stopped the verbal tirades for the smallest infraction, or for no real infraction at all. Michel contemplates his son for a moment, opening his mouth and closing it again as if he cannot form a response to the unspoken part of Enjolras’ sentence.

“Come here,” Michel says, taking one hand off the wheel and gesturing him over, positioning Enjolras in between him and the wheel. “Let me teach you how to steer. Would you like that?”

Enjolras nods, his enthusiasm obvious. His father takes his hands, placing them on the wheel and then covering them with his own. Enjolras feels a bubble of bittersweet nostalgia well in his chest and burst, running down and leaving his whole body overcome with a strange, sweet melancholy. A memory of one of Javert’s first journeys emerges in his head, and he recalls his father pulling him up onto his shoulders, pointing at the multitude of stars and naming as many as he could, his laughter warm and welcoming. This is different than that, but Enjolras craves it nevertheless, and revels in the moment despite confused feelings of anger at his father. Feelings of being a possession rather than a son that he cannot quite admit.

“There are eight spokes on this wheel,” Michel explains, hands tightening slightly over Enjolras’. “Sometimes there are more, sometimes less. But eight is standard. They all meet together at…”

“The nave,” Enjolras finishes, smiling now. “I remember.”

“Very good,” Michel responds, and Enjolras hears the smile in his voice, even if it sounds melancholy for reasons Enjolras, and perhaps even Michel himself, don’t understand. “And inside there is the axle.”

“But steering in the dark like this,” Enjolras says. “That’s much more difficult, isn’t it?”

“It can be,” Michel answers. “But you see these handles on the rim of the wheel here?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, watching as his father takes one of his hands and moves it toward said handle. “This one you feel with the extra grooves in it is called the king spoke. It helps me tell what position the rudder is in. When it points directly up, the rudder is dead straight.”

“Do you think I’d be good at steering a ship?” he asks. “Frantz is so talented at navigation, and I think that whenever we sail together he would definitely take the lead with the steering and the navigation. He always says I should be the captain and he should be the navigator. But I’d like to know how. At least the basics.”

He hears his father hesitate, and Enjolras knows why immediately, but neither speaks of it. His father has never explicitly said that societal rules prohibit Frantz from joining the ranks of the EITC or the Navy and sailing as an equal with him, but he doesn’t need to. Nevertheless, Enjolras won’t let go of that dream.

“A captain should have knowledge and skills concerning all parts of a ship and how it functions,” Michel says, and just for a moment Enjolras feels his father’s thumb running up and down the skin of his hand, similar to the motion he made on his forehead when Enjolras woke up from nightmares as a toddler. “But he should also have confidence in his men, learn to delegate duties so that he may oversee the ship as a whole. So I think Frantz is right. You would make an excellent captain.”

“Like you.”

Michel ruffles his hair at that, and Enjolras laughs, filling him up to the brim.

“Why are you steering tonight, Papa?” he asks, once the laughter dies and vanishes into the air. “Instead of one of the men?”

“I find it good for thinking,” Michel replies. “Solitary. As if I feel the sea might answer the questions I cannot find answers to.”

Enjolras pauses a moment then plunges forward, daring. “That is why I go down to the docks sometimes,” he says. “On days when I feel sad and don’t quite know why, or if I need quiet.”

He feels his father stiffen, but he doesn’t let go of his hands, which still rest on the wheel.

“You shouldn’t spend so much time at the docks, René,” Michel says, and Enjolras hears the lecture in his tone. “Your grandfather does not care for it.”

At this, Enjolras lets go of the wheel and ducks under his father’s arm, but faces him.

“But you’re my father,” he says, knowing he shouldn’t sound so challenging. “What do you think?”

“I agree. There are all kinds of characters down there you shouldn’t mingle with.”

“Because I’m better than them?” Enjolras asks, and his father’s eyes narrow slightly at his defiance.

“I never said that,” Michel says, diplomatic, but Enjolras doesn’t like the condescension he hears.

“You didn’t need to.”

He turns to go, the moment broken and his heart sinking heavily in his chest. Then he feels a gentler than expected hand closing over his arm and turning him around. When he meets his father’s eyes there is an odd desperation gleaming within.

“I want what is best for my son,” Michel whispers. “Those people are thieves and scoundrels, possibly even pirates in disguise. Many of those privateers I’ve seen you speaking with are not to be trusted. You are my son, the grandson of the governor, and there are…there are certain things expected of you. You cannot be seen talking to those people. But it’s best for you, in the end. Can you understand that? That I want what’s best for my own flesh and blood?”

“Yes Father,” Enjolras answers, reverting back and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Michel. There it is again, that tinge of ownership. That duty. That idea that no matter what he wishes, what his father and grandfather wished was more important.

“René!” he hears Frantz call out from across the deck. “Papa is telling me old sea ghost stories, come join us!”

He pulls out of his father’s grasp, turning around once more when he hears his father’s voice.

“René,” Michel tries.

“Thank you for the lesson,” Enjolras says, sincere. “I really do appreciate it. I’ll be over with Lieutenant Combeferre and Frantz.”

With that he walks away, sticking his hands in his pockets, eyes running over the dark deck so he doesn’t trip. But the moment he looks up and see’s Frantz’s zeal and Lieutenant Combeferre’s welcoming though slightly concerned smile, he feels his frown lift upward into a smile. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he feels caught between his past and his future, each spilling into the other as the sea rocks the ship and they sail homeward into the night.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea near Port Royal Jamaica. 1700.**

“You lied to me Michel,” Arthur says, a boiling rage Michel’s never heard before coursing through his voice, hot to the touch. “You lied to me directly.”

“I did not lie to you Arthur,” Michel insists, as cold as Arthur is hot, but he hears the weakness in his voice as if it cannot hold up his own argument. “I simply did not give you all the details.”

“First, I am your friend and that is unacceptable,” Arthur argues. “And besides that I am your second in command and you see fit not to give me the full scope of the journey?”

“You wouldn’t have come,” Michel responds, raising his voice. “You wouldn’t have come if you knew the lost cargo I mentioned were slaves.”

“So it’s better that you led me onto a journey you knew conflicted directly with my morals,” Arthur says, stepping closer, anger crackling in his eyes. “You led me on a journey to search for lost slaves when at this very moment I am searching for the mother of my son, who I fear has been sold into that very trade.”

“Chantal is a free woman,” Michel argues. “It is not right for her to be in the slave trade.”

“You are going to splice your argument like that? Simply call it the luck of the draw as to whether two people with the same skin color are slaves or free through no power of their own? Because society deems it fit?” Arthur asks. “You’re going to stand here and ask me to be easy with going after lost slaves after you lied to me about it, when those slaves possess the same skin as the woman I love? As my son? My son who you claim to love?”

“I do love Frantz,” Michel says, swiping his hand through the air. “You cannot question that. These are my orders, Arthur. What would you have me do? This is my job.”

At this Arthur softens, and Michel feels guilt grip his soul when his friend looks at him with his eyes mired in sadness.

“I don’t believe this is good for you Michel. This job. Your father in law. None of this is who you are, and it pains me to see you live your life according to the rules of a man you do not even like. According to the rules of a man who beats and berates your son in the name of discipline and something he calls love that doesn’t even resemble the word. Your only child.” There is pleading in Arthur’s voice and Michel can barely stand it. “You fear displeasing him. You fear losing all of this. But how can that be worth it?”

“I do not always agree with my father in law’s behavior,” Michel says. “But René does not behave as he should. He does not accept the role that will be his and he must. It is what is best for him.” Michel folds his hands behind his back, that familiar unsettled feeling prickling at his stomach that always comes when this issue arises. He sees René’s pained expression, sees his wife’s disapproval, and his heart sinks. But then he sees his father in law’s anger, feels the fear stab at his heart at what his disapproval would bring. Family discord at best, loss of this job and position at worst. “His path is before him and it is his job to carry on our family name with honor. I do not like seeing him upset, but he needs to learn to respect the authority figures in his life. Not just his grandfather, but myself as well. He’s even begun arguing back with Javert, who he once thought hung the moon itself. He obeys Astra, but she encourages his misdeeds in her anger at me.”

At this, Arthur scowls. “He is a child, Michel. Not a possession. He lashes out because he feels boxed in and controlled. He is a remarkable boy, but he is _hurting_ and you are letting it happen. If your father in law had his say he would separate Frantz and René.”

“I told you I would never allow that,” Michel says, frustrated. “You know I wouldn’t. René and Frantz are like brothers. But they also must recognize that society will not always allow them to…”

Arthur holds up his hand and Michel ceases.

“Do not finish that sentence. And no, I don’t know what you would do anymore,” Arthur says, tears welling in his eyes, but they don’t fall. “You are my dearest friend, and yet I feel you slipping away every second, morphing into this person I don’t know. You have power, you have prestige, you have even more wealth, but what will you have when that’s destroyed your family? When it’s destroyed you?”

“And you?” Michel snaps. “Sympathizing with a pirate? You’ve said yourself you approve of that scoundrel Fauchelevent who escaped from Javert. I saw your hesitation when you heard he was the one responsible for our missing cargo even before you knew the cargo was slaves. You approve of a man who partakes in piracy? Who breaks multiple laws?”

As he speaks he hears a crack of thunder outside, the water smacking against the side of the ship.

“Everything is not so black and white,” Arthur says, voice growing louder over the wind, which they can hear even below deck. “He was a convict laborer Michel. Do you know how many poor are arrested and thrown in prison for stealing to survive? He set free a slave woman at risk to his own escape plans. I cannot help but admire that.”

“You took this job all these years ago,” Michel answers, feeling his heart thudding in his chest. “Why did you take it if you did not agree?”

“Because I had no idea of the scope,” Arthur says. “I wanted to sail and see the world. I wanted to do that with the man who is like my brother. I did not know it would lead me here. I didn’t know then that so much of how our business is conducted would be built off the backs of slaves. I did not know how my thoughts would change to go against what I’d been taught. I didn’t know I would fall in love with a woman I will not ever be legally allowed to take as my wife and have a son. Life is not ever what we expect, Michel.”

“What would you have me do, Arthur?” he asks, voice husky with emotion but controlled even still. “Quit? Move my family back to France and live as a second son?”

“Would that be so bad?” Arthur asks, and Michel hears another crash of thunder off in the distance, the sound of rain hitting the ship. “We could all go back and leave this. And you aren’t just a second son anymore Michel, you’re a grown man with a life and wealth of his own in addition to the wealth you already had from your family. Your house in France is beautiful, you have family there, a brother you were so close with. A life, if you wanted it. You cannot tell me Astra would mind. She doesn’t care for it here and she doesn’t seem attached to going back to England.”

“It is not so easy,” Michel says, lowering his voice and gazing at his friend, the man who knows him perhaps better than anyone and who has never feared challenging him. “I am established here. My family is established here. I have dedicated myself to this job and to this life. You also forget my father in law is an extremely powerful man. ”

“I could never forget that,” Arthur says. “He reminds me of it nearly every time I’m unfortunate enough to be in the same room.”

Michel’s about to respond when they hear Javert’s voice calling to them from above, laced through with an unease they don’t usually hear from him.

“Captain Enjolras, Lieutenant Combeferre!” he says, voice rising so they can hear him over the growing howl of the wind. “The storm we were worried about came on far quicker than expected, we need you on deck. At first it looked like heavy rain, but then…well just come see.”

Michel and Arthur follow Javert above board and Michel sees what he means. A dark slate gray has replaced the vague cloudy skies from earlier when they sailed out, and the rain is coming down harder than he even realized from below deck. The thunder rumbles ominously again, growing closer. And despite their fight, the moment Michel looks at Arthur they work seamlessly in tandem again.

“Batten down the hatches and the tarpaulins!” Michel orders. “Trice the sails before the wind gets too harsh. Arthur, on the wheel.”

All Michel knows for the next twenty minutes is calling out orders, the wind roaring in his ears, the rain coming down in sheets so hard he can scarcely see anymore, and he wonders fleetingly if the ship will capsize. They are but a few miles from shore but they cannot turn around in this weather, only hope to stand still and wait for the storm to pass. After a moment he hears something crack, simultaneously hearing Arthur’s voice pierce through the wall of wind, shouting at someone to take the wheel. Another crack and he turns, seeing the wood of the Mizzen mast splitting and falling. There is another crack and then a set of feet running toward him and a pair of arms shoving him out of the way

Arthur.

Crack. The mast tips but Arthur is not yet fully clear and the mast falls further with an echoing, horrible creak, smashing into his abdomen, his head smacking onto the wood from the impact. Michel hears the rigging snap, and Javert pulls Arthur out of the way before the mast and the sails come tumbling down completely and pin him to the deck.

The shouts Michel hears off in the distance come closer as he realizes they are his own.

* * *

Enjolras hears his mother’s hurried step before he hears her voice.

“Boys,” she calls, soft, her voice not matching her step, but he hears the current of fear running beneath the calm in her tone.

She comes in, and the moment he sees her face Enjolras knows something is wrong, and from one glance at Combeferre he knows his friend senses the same. She has a wan smile for him, Enjolras sees, but she goes toward Combeferre, sitting down beside him on Enjolras’ bed and taking his hand, beckoning Enjolras over.

“What is it?” Combeferre asks. “What’s happened?”

“After the storm last night one of the Navy ships sailed out this morning to see if any ships had been stranded. They found an East India ship not too many miles from shore, and one of their masts was broken, almost capsized.” She pauses and grasps Combeferre’s hand tighter, reaching out for Enjolras’ as well. “Everyone was by some miracle alive, the ship almost capsized, but Frantz, your father…I’m afraid he’s been badly injured.”

“Where are they?” Combeferre asks immediately. “How bad is the injury?”

“They’re on their way here now, they sent the cabin boy with word,” she says, putting a gentle hand on the side of his face. “But I’m afraid I don’t know the extent. I just know that he was struck by one of the masts that broke.”

 Enjolras feels the air knocked out of him as if someone slammed him into the ground with all the force they could muster, but he hardly has time to think because the front door opens just then and he hears his father’s voice and Javert’s voice speaking in urgent, hushed tones, directing men to carry Arthur to the downstairs bedchamber. Combeferre all but leaps off the bed, dashing down the stairs toward the direction of the voices. Enjolras and his mother follow, but Combeferre stops short in the doorway, hand grasping the frame hard. The men lay Arthur carefully out on the bed and Enjolras hears his father thank them and send them off, leaving only himself and Javert. Enjolras watches Combeferre’s eyes rove over his father, his breathing shallow and rapid. Arthur’s reddish-brown hair is loose and spilled across the pillow, blood streaked through from what looks like a wound at the back. He is without his jacket, his shirt fully open and revealing an angry wound from what Enjolras assumes was the mast striking him; there is blood but also large swathes of bruising, and Arthur is paler than Enjolras has ever seen him, shivering even as sweat beads along his forehead. It is clear he struggles for a deep breath. Despite that, he notices them first, somehow.

“Frantz,” he says, voice weak. “Come here my lad, it’s all right.”

Combeferre moves forward, and so does Enjolras, standing by the edge of the bed so that he’s close enough if needed but giving his friend and his father some space. His mother stands near him, quietly grasping his hand.

“There’s a doctor on the way,” Michel says, looking over at his wife and son. “He should be here any moment.”

“Are you all right Father?” Enjolras asks, taking note of his father’s ripped, damp clothing, blood creased into the skin of his hands, and Javert doesn’t look any better.

“Just fine son,” he says, but he’s obviously badly shaken, his hand trembling as he reaches out, clasping Enjolras’ arm briefly. “We were lucky that Navy ship sailed by, or we’d still be out there.”

“Papa are you going to be all right?” Combeferre asks, drawing Enjolras’ attention back to the pair.

For a long, awful moment Arthur doesn’t answer, but reaches up, brushing the back of his hand against his son’s cheek and smiling, pain gleaming in his eyes.

“Let’s just wait for the doctor to get here, all right?” he asks, but he’s looking at Combeferre as if memorizing every feature of his face, the way his hair falls, the way his spectacles always slide down his nose.

The doctor arrives just a few moments later and everyone exits the room save Michel, shutting the door tight behind him, murmuring to the doctor. With a brief kiss to Combeferre’s curls, Enjolras watches his mother go down the stairs, off to retrieve wet cloths. Combeferre sits against the wall, hands resting on his knees and scrunching the fabric of his trousers. Enjolras sits next to him, their sides pressed together, but he waits for Combeferre to initiate any other touch. After a moment Combeferre puts his hand out, still silent, and Enjolras takes it, holding firm. Enjolras looks up at Javert, who stands by the rail of the stairs, looking out as if searching for something he cannot find.

“Javert?” Enjolras asks, a question in his voice. His eyes run over Javert’s tall, imposing figure, one of his sleeves ripped, the skin bleeding beneath it, no doubt from getting caught on something in the storm. “Are you all right?”

Javert notices Enjolras’ eyes catching on the small wound and he turns, facing the boys.

“Just a small cut,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears the sadness woven through his tone, all traces of his usual gruff nature vanished. “No need to worry.” His eyes move over to Combeferre, who still holds tight to Enjolras’ hand, his eyes locked on the floor. “Frantz, you should know that your father was struck pushing Captain Enjolras out of the way of the mast. He is incredibly courageous.”

Combeferre looks up, just barely smiling.

“I know,” he says in a whisper. “Thank you.”

After a moment Astra come back up the stairs and Combeferre releases Enjolras’ hand, going instead to lean on the rails and Enjolras feels the anxiety coming off him in waves, scarcely daring to breath, so thick is the tension in the air. Enjolras gets up, going over to the door that his mother left cracked open just enough for him to hear. He can’t make out what the doctor says, only that the tone sounds grave, and his stomach sinks. Then he hears Lieutenant Combeferre’s voice, weak and cut through with pain, his breathing even more labored.

“Take care of him Michel,” he says. “Say that you will take care of him.”

“I will Arthur,” Enjolras hears his father promise, tears edging into his voice. “Frantz will be safe here.”

“We will take care of him,” his mother echoes, and even though he can’t see it, Enjolras pictures his mother’s hand covering one of Arthur’s own.

“I can’t…” Arthur breathes in, struggling. “I cannot send Chantal word, there is no way, I haven’t found her…I…”

The doctor cuts Arthur off, bidding him to relax, and after a few more minutes the door opens and they’re called in again, Combeferre going straight to his father’s bedside.

“Papa?” he asks, but it’s clear from the look in his eyes that he knows the truth.

Arthur smiles at him, communicating silently what he cannot in words, and Combeferre curls up next to his father, burying his head into his chest. Without even realizing it, Enjolras feels warm tears roll down his cheeks, and finding his mother occupied with wiping Arthur’s face clean, turns to his father, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace like they haven’t shared in the recent past. The tears wet his father’s coat, but Michel wraps his arms around him, pulling him close.

“Captain and Madam Enjolras are going to take care of you,” Enjolras hears Arthur say. “You will stay here with René.”

Combeferre doesn’t answer, but Enjolras imagines him nodding into his father’s chest. After a moment Enjolras hears Arthur calling him over and he breaks away from his father, who has gone white as a ghost. Arthur pats the clear space on the bed and Enjolras climbs up. Arthur takes each of their hands, and it’s clear even this small movement causes pain.

“You two boys have a friendship worthy of the ages,” he says, voice growing hoarser with each passing moment. “And I want you to promise me you will take care of each other. Protect each other when you need it.”

“We will,” Enjolras answers, meeting Combeferre’s eyes, his friend struck mute by what’s happened. “I promise…I…”

 _Thank you_ , is what he wants to say, but he can’t quite manage the words. Arthur has stood by him, helped him, loved him without condition.

But Arthur knows what he means, a silent _you’re welcome_ on his lips that manage a smile, and Enjolras leans over so that Arthur can kiss the top of his head, squeezing his hand a final time before Enjolras slides down off the bed, retreating into his mother’s arms. Michel takes his place, though he pulls up a chair beside the bed and takes Arthur’s free hand. Javert stands by the door, eyes wide as if he doesn’t know how to process what’s going on around him. Arthur holds tight to Michel’s hand, his other arm cradling Combeferre against his side, fingers toying with his son’s curls.

“I love you Frantz,” Enjolras hears Arthur murmur.

“I love you Papa,” Combeferre says, voice full of held back tears, though Enjolras sees them leaking out of his eyes and it tortures him inside that he can do nothing to help his friend, nothing to help the man who has been like a second father to him all his life.

Astra wraps her arm tightly around his waist, and Enjolras feels Javert grasp his shoulder for a fleeting moment before pulling his hand away. Silence spreads like a fog over the room, and Enjolras has never found the absence of noise so suffocating. “Frantz” he hears Lieutenant Combeferre whisper, so soft it’s barely audible.

Then, nothing.

A solid minute passes, and Enjolras swears he can feel a soul leaving the room, and shock strikes him with such force that he finds he cannot even cry, but the first thing he hears breaking into the silence is his father’s sobbing.

He’s never heard his father cry before.

Combeferre sits up, eyes wide and breathing rapidly, tears streaming down his face now, but he cannot take his eyes off his father, who to the undiscerning eye, might only be sleeping.

“Michel,” his mother says, but his father doesn’t seem to hear, rising from the bed and going around to the other side, gently turning Combeferre around and removing him from his father’s limp grasp, breathing in deep to hold back his tears. Combeferre looks back, struggling to understand the look in Michel’s eyes, and Enjolras watches something break through the statue his father wishes he was, and he’s crying again, pulling Combeferre tight against him, the living memory of Arthur. Something about it unsettles Enjolras, even if he couldn’t explain why, as if his father sees only a piece of Arthur and not the son he just left behind.

Even years later, Enjolras finds he can never forget.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1701.**

Shouting bursts through the silence, and Combeferre jumps from the chair where he’s reading, concealing himself mostly behind the wall as he watches Governor Travers round the corner, pushing Enjolras in front of him.

“You were out at the docks again!” he shouts, his voice booming out, small gold spectacles sliding down to the edge of his nose. Though he’s a tall man, the governor doesn’t look particularly imposing, his gray hair tied back primly, his clothes immaculate, but his anger is a powerful transformer. “Talking to scoundrels.”

Enjolras does not shout back. He used to, when they were younger and before his grandfather started striking him, but now he doesn’t give his grandfather the satisfaction and it usually only makes things worse. But still, part of Combeferre wishes he _would_ shout. He’s been in the care of Enjolras’ parents since his father died a year ago, and scenes like this one are even more commonplace than before. Sometimes he wishes he could take the inheritance his father left him and run away with Enjolras, but there’s no chance he’ll have that money until he is of age, and he keeps hoping the situation here will improve.

“I was talking to some friends,” Enjolras replies, calm, but his eyes burn with a hatred that makes Combeferre shiver for reasons he’s unsure of. Perhaps it’s because who Enjolras really is dies temporarily whenever this occurs, drawing out another facet of his personality that is not the default, but of which he is capable. “And just wanted to sit by the sea.”

The first slap comes before Combeferre can even prepare himself, but he hears the thwack ringing through the room. Enjolras doesn’t fall, but he raises his hand to his cheek, the other clenching into a fist.

“You do not talk back to me, boy,” Governor Travers says.

“I was only explaining where I was, sir.”

At this, Governor Travers seizes Enjolras by the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer and then shoving him away, and this time, Enjolras does fall, hitting the floor hard. He looks up at his grandfather, the hatred growing into a wildfire he can scarcely contain.

“And you clothes are frightful, too. Your cravat is never tied. You will not continue to be an embarrassment to me, René Enjolras,” he says. “Your mother is too soft on you when your father is away and sometimes I think if not for my guidance your father would follow suit. You are the heir to this family, do you hear me? You will not behave this way.”

Combeferre cannot take it. He doesn’t care how many times Enjolras has told him not to step in for fear of him getting hurt. He won’t stand by and witness his best friend endure this. He steps forward, but before he can take another he feels a strong hand seize the back of his jacket like steel from behind.

“No, Frantz,” Javert’s voice says, a harsh whisper in his ear. There is a trace of melancholy Combeferre doesn’t understand, and knows Javert will never admit. He remembers drawing Javert into their games when he’d first arrived here four years ago, but the image of a younger Javert begrudgingly helping them build a fort out of sticks and palm fronds seems far away now.

Combeferre tries pulling away, but it does no good.

“He is hurting René,” Combeferre whispers back through gritted teeth. In front of him, Governor Travers still shouts, and Enjolras’ own voice rises ever so much, causing the governor to grab his grandson’s arm so hard that Enjolras lets out an involuntary gasp, biting his lip against it.  He watches Enjolras try and pull away, but the governor only holds tighter. “Let go of me.”

“He must learn to behave,” Javert says, holding on tighter as Combeferre struggles. After a moment Javert is forced to wrap a loose arm around Combeferre’s front, so much is his fight. “And you know what the governor’s wrath will be if you interfere. I’m keeping you from it for your own good.”

 _The governor is not fond of you_ , is what Javert doesn’t say, but Combeferre already knows what Governor Travers thinks of him and how he feels about his presence in the Enjolras household.

“Governor Travers is bruising his arm,” Combeferre insists. “You don’t care about René. If you did you’d stop him.”

“Are you implying Captain Enjolras does not care about his own son?” Javert shoots back. “Because he was the one who explicitly told me not to interfere.”

Combeferre doesn’t answer, unwilling just yet, to confront that particular obstacle. It’s too confusing, knowing the same man who took him in when his father died, who was his father’s closest friend, who Enjolras used to adore, is the same man who allows this to go on, never putting his own hands to his son, but not stopping the governor either. At least not for long, even when he does step in.

“You don’t understand,” Javert says, and Combeferre feels the familiar shame he doesn’t want or invite flooding into red patches on his cheeks. “René will have responsibilities when he’s older. A title. He must learn the ways of the world instead of flouting the rules all the time. I care about him enough to know he must straighten out. He must obey his elders.”

“I don’t understand because of my skin color?” Comberre asks, finally slipping out from under Javert and turning toward him. He glances back quickly, but Governor Travers is walking away, already shouting as he walks toward the kitchen that his grandson is to go without dinner, and Enjolras sits on the stairs, holding his arm, the red marks of a handprint seared onto his skin. He stares at an empty spot on the floor, and something about that makes hot rage build in the pit of Combeferre’s stomach.

“That’s not what I said,” Javert snaps, but his eyes widen in surprise at Combeferre’s frankness.

“No, it’s only what you meant,” Combeferre replies, stepping closer to Javert and looking him directly in the eyes.

“You are twelve years old,” Javert says, looming over him. “A mere child. As I said. You do not understand.”

“I know what abuse is,” Combeferre answers. “But apparently being twenty-seven years old didn’t teach you to help someone who needs it. René is a child like me. Unless you’ve forgotten.”

Combeferre walks away at that, and much to his annoyance, Javert follows. He sits down next to Enjolras on the stairs, and as soon as he hears the governor exit the back door and out onto the deck, he speaks.

“Are you all right?” he asks, gazing at Enjolras’ arm, where he’s sure a bruise will form.

“It hurts a bit but I think I’ll be fine,” Enjolras says, pressing his fingers to the skin and wincing at how tender it is. He smiles tightly at Combeferre before his eyes fall on Javert.

“When did you arrive?” he asks. “I thought you were meant to stay abed since you were ill.”

“I’m feeling better. And your mother invited me for dinner,” Javert says, and Combeferre notices his eyes falling on the red patch on Enjolras’ cheek, on the growing bruise on his arm. “I got here about ten minutes ago.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrow.

“You saw what happened,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You didn’t stop him.”

“It is not my place…” Javert tries.

“Not your _place_?” Enjolras says, and it unnerves Combeferre that he still won’t truly raise his voice. “You always see fit to tell me what to do. You are here nearly as much as you are in your own rooms.” Enjolras stops, and his voice wavers, eyes growing moist. “Why would you let him _do_ that?”

Javert’s tone softens, but the determined glint in his eyes does not.

“I cannot interfere with your grandfather’s discipline,” he says, and Enjolras only glares at him. He reaches out, taking Enjolras’ wrist so he might examine the injury on his arm, and Enjolras flinches, looking very much as if he wants to jerk back, but he stops himself.

“I am not going to strike you, René,” Javert says, annoyed. “I have never done so.”

“No,” Enjolras answers. “You only allow other people to do so. My grandfather did not used to strike me either. At first it was shouting and insults. But now he does.”

Javert drops Enjolras’ arm abruptly.

“You disobey him on a regular basis, and you must do as you are told. Then perhaps this would not happen. Now. Would you like me to get you something for your arm?”

“No,” Enjolras says, getting up again, eyes swimming with disappointment and betrayal.

“René…” Javert growls.

“He said no,” Combeferre adds. “Come on,” he says to Enjolras. “Let’s go upstairs. If you don’t get dinner neither do I.”

With that they turn and leave Javert a bit flabbergasted behind them, but he doesn’t follow. They pass by both of their rooms and look quickly before heading into the servant’s quarters, where the housekeeper Mrs. Hudson keeps her quarters. Enjolras still holds his arm, so Combeferre knocks, waiting for an answer. The door opens quickly, and Mrs. Hudson’s sympathetic face appears before them.

“Hello boys,” she says, eyes darting down to Enjolras’ arm, frowning.

“We’re not sure if Governor Travers is gone,” Combeferre explains. “Can we sit in here for a bit?”

“Of course,” she says ushering them inside, as sympathetic to their plight as usual “Come right in.”

“I’m afraid you’ll be punished if he finds us here with you,” Enjolras finally says, not sitting down. “I don’t want…”

“Well,” she says, leaning down and running a gentle thumb across his cheek. “I was just about to go tend to the dining room before supper, so I’ll go now so you can have some time and I will pretend to know nothing of it. All right?”

Enjolras gives her a half-smile and nods.

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” he says. “I appreciate it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Combeferre repeats, and for a moment he watches her as she looks at them with sadness welling in her eyes. She breaks off after a moment, patting both of their shoulders before exiting the room and shutting the door snugly behind her. The moment she does, Enjolras sits down in one of the chairs, holding his arm tighter and clenching his eyes shut in what Combeferre can only assume is pain.

“He really hurt you this time didn’t he?” Combeferre asks, sitting down on the arm.

“I didn’t know he could grasp my arm so tightly,” Enjolras replies. “If it had been lower down on my wrist he might have broken it.” He looks down at the slowly purpling skin, and Combeferre does too, wishing he could fix it.

“What started it this time?”

“You heard,” Enjolras says, words coming out too fast. “It was me going down to the docks.”

“René,” Combeferre says, pointed. “I know you.”

“It really _was_ about my being at the docks,” Enjolras insists. “But he didn’t know exactly who I was talking to.”

He looks a bit shy at this, but Combeferre persists.

“Who exactly _were_ you talking to?”

“I think…” Enjolras hesitates. “I think they were pirates.”

Intrigue and what sounds a bit like admiration soaks through Enjolras’ tone, and there’s something in his eyes that sparks Combeferre’s curiosity.

“ _Pirates_ , René?” he asks. “That…why were you talking to pirates?”

“I saw a group of white men sailing with black men and I just…I wanted to know how,” Enjolras says. “I want to be able to sail with you and there they were, men of different races sailing together equally and I wanted to speak to them.”

At this Combeferre falls silent, filled with an overpowering love for his friend. It gushes hot in his chest, and despite the situation, he smiles. Enjolras smiles in return, reading his thoughts, and lowers his voice.

“They are all equal aboard their ship,” Enjolras says, danger and passion reverberating in his voice. “No matter what their skin color. They said escaped slaves have become captains! We could…”

“Are you suggesting we should become _pirates_ when we grow up?” Combeferre says, but finds his tone only sounds half-incredulous. The idea of that kind of equality, of sailing with Enjolras, of the sea open before them and away from here.

“No,” Enjolras says. “I don’t know.”

Before either of them can say anything further there’s a soft knock at the door and Enjolras’ mother enters, the only other person who knows of their hideaway in this room.

“Javert told me something happened,” Astra says, dashing over to them. “But you weren’t in your rooms.” Her eyes fall onto her son’s arm, where a red handprint still burns the skin, small dots of purple popping up. “Did your grandfather do this René?” she asks, breathless with anger, but no disbelief.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “I’m sorry, I…”

“No,” she insists flatly, but when she raises her hand to swipe it through the air in emphasis she thinks better of it and lowers it again. “You should not be sorry. He should be. Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats.

“What else happened?”

“He slapped me,” Enjolras says, words reluctant because he knows they upset his mother. “And then shoved me to the ground.”

Astra takes his hand and squeezes it, but Combeferre doesn’t miss the frost gathering in her eyes, and he suspects he would never care for being on the end of that from her. She turns to him, eyes running over his face. “Are you all right Frantz, dear?” she asks, taking her free hand and grasping one of his, and for a moment he’s reminded vividly of his father.

“I’m fine,” he assures her, but she still keeps hold of his hand and he squeezes in return. “But I’m concerned about René’s arm.”

Astra meets her son’s eyes and with his silent permission slides his sleeve further up, gently touching his arm. Enjolras flinches and Astra draws back, concerned.

“Let’s go get some cold cloths, all right?” she says, placing a hand on the back of his neck and toying with the tiny, fine curls resting there, letting go of Combeferre’s hand and drawing him closer, putting an arm around his waist, and just for a moment they sit huddled together in the silence, safe.

“Javert didn’t stop grandfather,” Enjolras finally says, his words edging into the quiet. “He said Father told him not to interfere.

“I will speak to him,” Astra says. “And I will speak to your father. I promise you. Let’s go get your arm taken care of all right?”

Enjolras agrees, and a few minutes later the three of them sit at the small table in the kitchen where Enjolras and Combeferre sometimes go if they sneak down for snacks in the middle of the night. Astra wraps a damp, cool cloth around Enjolras’ arm, and Combeferre doesn’t miss the tears she blinks back when her son winces. They’re only alone for a few minutes before the door swings open, and both the boys jump, fearing the governor. Combeferre exhales a breath of relief when he sees it’s just Captain Enjolras, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t fade.

“I saw Javert on my way in,” he says, eyes focusing on the cloth wrapped around his son’s arm. “And none of you were at the table. What happened?”

“What do you think happened Michel?” Astra asks, voice iced over, and Combeferre knows how serious this is just from the fact that she’s willing to fight with her husband in front of them. “My father happened. He struck René in the face. He pushed him to the floor. And then he seized his arm so hard it’s bruising.” She undoes the cloth carefully, showing Michel Enjolras’ arm, the skin purpling even more now.

Michel reaches out as if to touch the injury and Combeferre watches Enjolras draw back.

“Please Father,” he says, voice soft. “Don’t touch it.”

Michel draws his hand back, looking apologetic but not voicing it before turning to Combeferre, who looks back at him, knowing even just the stance he holds looks challenging.

“Are you all right, Frantz?” he asks.

“Yes sir,” he answers, and finds the courage to inject the harshness he feels into his voice. “But I saw the whole thing. Honestly I’m surprised he didn’t break René’s arm.”

“I’m sure that wasn’t his intent…” he tries.

“He hurt René,” Combeferre pushes, desperate. He remembers his father telling stories of his and Michel’s younger days, of Michel’s passion and ferocity against boarding school bullies, yet he sees none of that now in defense of his son. He wonders if the best of Enjolras’ father died with his own.

“Well, sometimes these things look worse than they actually are,” he replies, and Combeferre hears a familiar condescension in his tone he doesn’t like.

“Michel you cannot be serious,” Astra says, breathless with anger.

“The ball is tomorrow,” Michel says. “We will have to be careful that this doesn’t show.”

“Is that all you are concerned about?” Astra asks, fury punching into her tone harder with every word. “Perhaps if you were so worried you should have spoken to my father and held your ground with this.”

Looking at least a bit reprimanded, Michel turns back to Enjolras, squatting down in front of his son as he did when they were younger and he was worried.

“Son, I…” he tries, putting a hand on Enjolras’ knee.

“May I just go upstairs with Frantz please?” Enjolras cuts in, his voice a whisper.

“I think we should talk about this,” Michel says, but when he looks up at his wife, Combeferre knows he’s lost the argument. It is not often that Astra can assert what little power she has as a woman, but she will not cede when it comes to protecting her son. Combeferre knows that protection extends to him, and he feels a rush of gratitude toward her, who has never treated him as anything less than an equal to Enjolras.

“You two go ahead,” she says. “Take the cloth and keep it on. I’ll be up in a bit.”

Enjolras doesn’t even look at his father, but spares a smile for his mother before they exit the room, the sound of raised voices flowing out behind them almost immediately, Michel’s French accent even more pronounced in his anger. They walk almost without thought to Enjolras’ room and make for the window seat where they can see the ocean beyond, darkened already now by the early summer sunset. Enjolras upsets the cloth when he sits down, and Combeferre picks it up, reaching out to place it back on his arm, hesitating.

“I don’t know if you want me touching it?”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras says, offering a smile. “I just didn’t want my father touching it.”

Combeferre nods, gingerly wrapping the cloth around his friend’s arm and holding it there. Enjolras’ eyes trail from his arm and out the window toward the sea, hope burning blue in his eyes.

“We’ll get there René,” Combeferre says. “We’ll sail out there together one day. Away from here. You know that don’t you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, determination mixing in with the ache, and something in his face reflects the future, as if his soul knows what it contains already. “I do know. Thank you.” He squeezes Combeferre’s fingers briefly. “Want to read aloud for a bit? We were almost done with the book from yesterday.”

Combeferre nods, picking the book up off the table nearby and leaning shoulder to shoulder with Enjolras as his own voice floats through the air. Even if just for a while, they feel safe.

* * *

12-year-old Auden Courfeyrac almost wishes that he hadn’t convinced his father into letting him come to this party. That is, until he spots the host family near the center of the room. He knows who the Enjolrases are. Everyone knows who the Enjolrases are. Captain Enjolras is the most renowned and wealthy East India sailor in the Caribbean, and given that his father in law is the Royal Governor, it was inevitable. Courfeyrac’s seen the youngest Enjolras about the island, but he’s as sheltered as you’d expect the son of such a family to be. The entire family stands in a semi-circle across from a small group of men and women Courfeyrac doesn’t know. What he does know is that the smile plastered on René Enjolras’ face isn’t genuine in the least. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and although he stands up straight as an arrow Courfeyrac sees something heavy in his posture. He stands between his parents, his grandfather on the other side of his father. Courfeyrac walks up slowly, pretending to peruse the refreshment table while listening in.

“I’ve seen you out sailing with your father,” one of then says. “Do you like going out on the sea?”

“Yes,” Enjolras starts. “I…”

“René is a talented sailor,” the governor says, speaking over his grandson. “It runs in our blood, that. He will be a fine addition to East India when the time arrives.”

Courfeyrac watches Enjolras’ plaster smile crack, and his father places an arm around his son’s shoulder, and for a moment Courfeyrac thinks he’s keeping René in line. Then he sees Captain Enjolras squeeze his son’s shoulder very gently while shooting a concerned glance at the governor as if concerned the older man will pounce or explode should he notice his grandson’s faltering smile. Perhaps it is a mix of a reprimand and a comfort. A reminder that the governor is watching. The captain laughs, but it rings so false that Courfeyrac winces at the awkwardness.

“Don’t discount the Royal Navy just yet Governor,” Captain Enjolras says. “There might be a competition to have René in their employ.”

“You would send your own son to the Royal Navy Michel?” one the men asks, chuckling. “Only to have him go into an eventual battle and swiftly defeat your own countrymen?”

The captain laughs again. “The French Navy is full of brave men, Alan. René would win of course, but I’m sure my fellow Frenchmen would put up a fierce fight. I was almost set to join the French Navy, actually, until Astra came along.” He looks over at his wife, who looks back but offers only the tiniest fraction of a smile in return out of obligation. If that’s any indication, Courfeyrac thinks, they must be fighting, most likely over their son. And possibly in connection to the governor. For all their hiding their family strife, Courfeyrac thinks, it’s fairly transparent if one looks hard enough.

“Well Astra,” one of the women says, the only person who catches onto the tension as much as Courfeyrac does. “René will have no trouble finding a wife, when the time comes, what with his sailing prowess, your family name, and his astounding good looks.”

Courfeyrac watches Madam Enjolras’ smile widen as she looks at her son, but there’s an ache in her eyes he doesn’t have a name for.

“Well,” she says, looking back up at the woman who spoke. “As long as the woman in question is aware of the catch she’s made. René is intelligent and compassionate. He deserves a wife who is the very same.”

“We shall secure the best possible marriage,” Governor Travers says, patting his grandson’s cheek, and Courfeyrac doesn’t miss Enjolras doing his best not to pull back from his grandfather’s touch. “That is for certain.”

The group breaks up a few moments after and Enjolras ducks out from his father’s arm in an instant, whispering something in his mother’s ear before locating a chair near the edge of the room and taking his hat off, swiping at the sweat on his hairline. Courfeyrac swallows the rest of his drink, straightens his own hat and walks over, stopping just in front of Enjolras, whose eyes trace the floor, one foot swinging back and forth.

“They all talked about you as if you were not even there,” Courfyrac says, and Enjolras jumps, though it’s oddly graceful. “I’m sorry you had to stand through that. Dreadful.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, but stares at him in bewilderment, eyebrows furrowing in confusion after a moment.  

"Auden Courfeyrac," Courfeyrac says, sticking his hand out for the other boy to shake. "I know who you are, of course. René Enjolras."

Enjolras puts his hand out warily, but his grip is firm. "I know who you are too," he says. "I've seen you playing those card games with other boys down by the docks. Gambling. Your father is the most successful new privateer in Jamaica."

"So successful he almost forgets I exist," Courfeyrac answers. "Happy to see my reputation precedes me. Where is your friend? The one..."

"Don't," Enjolras snaps, cutting him off, his shyness abruptly morphing into wary anger.

"...I was going to say the one with the glasses," Courfeyrac says, slow. "I don't know his name."

A smile flickers at Enjolras' lips, and Courfeyrac feels one slipping onto his own face in response.

"I'm sorry," Enjolras says, sheepish. "I am just...it would not be the first time someone insulted Frantz or called him names. I won't stand for it."

"Understood entirely," Courfeyrac replies. "In any case, where is he?"

Enjolras frowns. "He's not allowed at the party," he says. "My grandfather does not deem it appropriate. My father doesn't argue."

"Because he's a mulatto," Courfeyrac says, softer now.

"Yes," Enjolras replies. "His father died a year ago and my parents took him in. His father was my father's dearest friend. And my godfather. His mother...we. We don't know. She went missing. But he's like my brother. Smarter than anyone I know and yet he can't come to a silly party. I hate it."

"Well, I say let's go find him then."

"Your father won't look for you?"

"Guaranteed he won't, and my mother's had too much wine to notice."

"Mine will notice," Enjolras says.

"I think the trouble is worth it, don't you?" Courfeyrac asks, putting a hand on Enjolras' forearm, which the other boy pulls away, wincing.

Courfeyrac jumps a little, concerned. "Did I hurt you? What's wrong with your arm?"

Enjolras hesitates, then leans over, lowering his voice.

"It's...my grandfather. It's bruised rather badly, that's why my sleeves are overly long. Even in this weather."

Courfeyrac's eyes widen. "Your _grandfather_ did that to you? Is that normal?”

“It’s gotten to be,” Enjolras answers. “My behavior is not to his liking.”

“Even more reason to leave, then," Courfeyrac mutters, angry as his gaze flits over to where the Governor stands, laughing with another group.

Enjolras considers for a moment, surveying his face, and despite himself, a full smile breaks out.

"You're going to get me in trouble, aren't you?"

Somehow, Courfeyrac knows he doesn't just mean tonight, and this moment.

"Oh," he says. "Without a doubt. Come on, while your father and grandfather are distracted.”

Courfeyrac looks at Enjolras for permission before taking the uninjured wrist in his hand and pulling him through the crowd until they’re out of the room. Enjolras directs him through the house and up the stairs, heading down the hallway toward what Courfeyrac assumes are bedrooms.

“I’ve seen you giving some of that money you won off those boys at gambling to people in the street,” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac looks up, surprised.

“Is that why you’ll only play cards with the wealthier boys?” he asks, and there’s a gleam of passion in his eyes. “I thought maybe it was because you didn’t want to associate with the poor boys, but then I saw you doing that.”

Despite himself, Courfeyrac blushes. “Well, I certainly won’t gamble with people who can’t afford to lose. Most of the brats I play against just steal it from their fathers.”

Enjolras smiles again. “But isn’t that what you do?”

“Part of it is my allowance,” Courfeyrac insists, grinning. “But yes. The difference between them and me is that _I’m_ not a brat.”

Enjolras stops in front of a door near the end of the hallway. “Here,” he says. He knocks softly as though he fears someone will hear him all the way upstairs. “Frantz?” he asks. “It’s René. And I’ve brought a friend. Can we come in?”

Combeferre calls out his assent and Enjolras and Courfeyrac enter.

“I wasn’t expecting you until later,” Combeferre says, marking his place in his book with his finger and closing it. “Shouldn’t you still be at the party?”

“Yes,” Enjolras admits. “We snuck out.”

“Can’t blame you,” Combeferre says, but he looks worried. “But if they realize, you’ll be in trouble. I just don’t want you hurt again.” He glances down at Enjolras’ arm, still hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, then back up at Courfeyrac, a question in his eyes.

“They were all talking over him and about him like he wasn’t even there,” Courfeyrac says. “It seemed appropriate to sneak out while we could.”

At this, Combeferre smiles, getting up from his chair and putting his hand out.

“Frantz Combeferre,” he says, and just like with Enjolras, Courfeyrac feels the instant spark of connection.

“Auden Courfeyrac,” he replies, smiling in return.

“Oh the boy who gambles with cards!” Combeferre exclaims. “Yes, I’ve seen you before. You’ll have to teach me how to play.”

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, smirking. “Didn’t expect such rebels in the two of you.”

“Yes you did,” Enjolras argues. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have come over to me.”

“I’m caught!” Courfeyrac says, laughing, then grows more solemn. “Though to be fair I was also concerned about you. Those adults talking about you but not to you.”

“That’s fairly common, actually. Aside from my mother,” Enjolras answers, shrugging off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves, because even inside, it is warm. Courfeyrac sees the bruise, long purple streaks spread out in the shape of fingertips as though his grandfather’s hand still won’t quite let him go. “I’m still so angry they wouldn’t let you come to the ball, Frantz,” Enjolras continues, fire in his eyes. “It’s ridiculous. Bloody bastards.”

Courfeyrac can’t help it, and laughs aloud. Enjolras glares at him, but it’s obvious he’s trying not to laugh himself.

“What?” he asks. “What’s so amusing?”

“Nothing, nothing I just wasn’t expecting it,” he says. “Your accent is so proper.”

“You have an English accent as much as I do,” Enjolras insists, but he’s smiling still.

“Yes, but yours was tinged with just enough French to make it sound very aristocratic,” Courfeyrac teases.

“You’ve been learning more curse words at the docks than you let on René,” Combeferre says, flicking his friend affectionately in the arm. “In any case, it doesn’t sound like I missed very much,” he continues, but the sadness in his tone gives him away. “But I’m glad you’re here, anyway. No matter the consequence. And with a new friend!” He smiles at Courfyrac again.

Courfeyrac reaches down into his pocket, pulling out a deck of cards, an idea springing to life in his brain.

“All right lads,” he says, grinning. “What do you say I teach you to play Faro? We can learn in the time before I have to leave or they discover you here.”

His two new friends nod enthusiastically in return, and Courfeyrac knows that here, hiding away in this room from the adults and the party below them, that this is the beginning of something.  


	4. Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac grow closer and grow up, edging into adolescence. As they do, the evils of their society come closer and they long for a different life and for the freedom the sea offers. Javert rises in the ranks of the EITC, becoming Captain Enjolras' most trusted friend and officer. Old relationships splinter and betrayals occur, including one that turns the foundation of the lives they all knew upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning here once again for period language, including the use of the words gypsy and mulatto. Also a warning for a fairly descriptive scene of the conditions slaves faced while on ships. There will be one more backstory chapter of the Trio and Javert after this one, and then we will meet Valjean, Fantine, Cosette, and Feuilly! Just as a note, not all the backstory sections will be as long as this first one, but it has some very important foundations for later events in the story. The rest of the backstory sections will vary in length. Anyhow, thank you to everyone who has left me such amazing comments and messages, you are all wonderful and I appreciate it so very much. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**Book  I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 4**

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1701.**

“Rene, are you paying attention?”

Enjolras’ eyes fly fully open as his grandfather turns from the window, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Yes sir,” he says, but he feels his gaze flit toward the window for a split second, longing for the moment when he can escape and go find Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“You look to be daydreaming,” his grandfather answers, and when he sits down in the chair across from him, Enjolras muses on how normal his grandfather appears. He looks like any other nobleman his age, primly dressed in clothes of the finest material, average height and build, gray hair tied primly back. You wouldn’t know by simply glancing at him that he was capable of leaving a trail of bruises both real and metaphorical behind him.

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Enjolras says. It’s not a lie: he’d stayed out near the shore with Combeferre and Courfeyrac learning card games, and for once neither Javert nor his father caught him, and he’d gotten home late.

“Why is that?” his grandfather replies, raising his eyebrows, gesturing to Mrs. Hudson to bring the tea around as she enters the room. She sets it down and shoots Enjolras a quick smile, exiting the room as soon as she’s set everything in the correct place. She’s been reprimanded by his grandfather for what he called “lingering” before, as had the other servants.

“Strange dreams,” Enjolras lies, taking a sugar cube and placing it in his tea, his stomach sinking as he remembers the slave auction he saw, remembers how miserable the slaves in his grandfather’s house look, knowing that this sugar was undoubtedly harvested by slave labor. “They kept me up.”

“Probably all those stories you read, I imagine,” his grandfather says, looking at him over the edge of his half-moon spectacles. “You shouldn’t read before bed.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Enjolras replies, stirring the sugar into his tea, knowing that if he refused the sugar entirely, his grandfather would suspect the reason.

“Are you sassing me, Rene?” he asks, preparing his own tea without spilling a single drop on the table.

“No sir,” Enjolras says, looking up and meeting his grandfather’s eyes, feeling the familiar foreboding pulsing through his veins with a nauseating fear. He breathes out in relief when his grandfather doesn’t rise, when his anger doesn’t appear.

There’s a small chunk of quiet, so Enjolras sips his tea, feeling awkward. His grandfather has demanded this solitary time with him once a week, and despite everything, despite the verbal insults and the nights without dinner when his grandfather demands it, despite the bruises and the pain, here he must sit with the man who inflicted them in the name of bonding.

“Your father says he’s going to let you start carefully sparring with a real sword soon, since you’re nearing thirteen,” his grandfather says, breaking into the silence.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, a familiar feeling of betrayal and anger mixed with an ache for missing the father he knew as a child. “He’s having one made for me.”

“Javert has served as an excellent teacher for you,” the governor continues. “He’s a very competent swordsman. And a skilled sailor.”

“I’ve learned a great deal from him,” Enjolras answers, feeling a variation on the theme that he feels when his father is mentioned when he hears Javert’s name.

“Who is that new boy you’ve been spending such a great deal of time with these past few months?” his grandfather asks, and Enjolras longs for tea to end already. “The Courfeyrac boy, isn’t he? His family was at the ball a few months ago.”

_The ball where I had to hide the bruise you left on my arm, Enjolras wants to say._

“Yes,” Enjolras replies instead, feeling his stomach twist in worry. “His father is a privateer.”

“The most successful privateer in Jamaica, so I’m hearing,” the governor says, but Enjolras senses disdain in his tone.

“Do you not approve of privateers?”

“They are usually untrustworthy,” the governor says. “They are new money, you see, and their manners leave something to be desired.”

“I’ve seen you meet with privateers before,” Enjolras says, keeping his tone neutral, hoping he can escape his grandfather’s metaphorical grasp and get to his friends without incident.

“Well it is inevitable that I must meet with them,” his grandfather explains, pouring himself more tea. “The world changes day by day, Rene, and no matter their new money, they have standing and influence and they find their way into our social circles. It is good for our reputation and good for business. Privateers do a great deal of business with East India.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, focusing on his tea.

“Well,” his grandfather says, expectant. “What is the boy like?”

Enjolras hesitates. He cannot say that Courfeyrac gambles other wealthy boys out of their money partly for sport and partly so he can give the money to people he sees in the street. He cannot tell his grandfather about late nights in the hidden palm tree grove near the shore, where he spends as much time with Combeferre and Courfeyrac as possible.

“He likes to sail, as I do,” Enjolras says, which isn’t a lie. But Courfeyrac has no desire to follow in his father’s footsteps, and Enjolras hopes his grandfather doesn’t ask.

“Well,” his grandfather says, uninterested in actually knowing anything about Courfeyrac. “You must be careful with whom you spend your time, Rene. You will be inheriting my title when you come of age. You will be a baron. And your father not only comes from French nobility, your uncle is a viscount after all, but he’s earned a reputation working for East India.”

“I know, grandfather,” Enjolras says, a bite of impatience in his voice. He’s heard this lecture before, and he’s certain he’ll hear it again.

“A great many eyes are on our family,” the governor continues, and Enjolras half wishes the roof would fall in just so this conversation would end. “Who you spend your time with is important. Crucial. So if the Courfeyrac boy becomes a bad influence you will not see him anymore, no matter his father’s new prestige, do you understand me? Unfortunately I cannot do anything about the bad influence of the Combeferre boy. What your father could possibly be…”

“Grandfather _please_ ,” Enjolras says out of instinct. He knows he shouldn’t. Combeferre would tell him he shouldn’t put himself in harm’s way, that he should just wait it out and avoid a confrontation, but each time his grandfather insults Combeferre Enjolras feels his blood burn through his veins, even as his voice freezes over.

Ire flashes in his grandfather’s eyes, and it’s clear from his clenched fist that he’s holding back.

“You will not interrupt me, Rene,” he says. “You will not disrespect…”

But the sound of the front door opening a bit harder than normal cuts the governor off again, and they turn toward the sound of voices.

“Sir,” Enjolras hears Javert say, frustration in his tone. “I am certain that Fauchelevent or Valjean or whatever it is he’s calling himself these days is the one who stole our shipment.”

“Javert,” Enjolras hears his father respond, sighing. “You are one of the most competent sailors I’ve ever met. You are my most trusted officer. You are my friend. But you cannot continue thinking Valjean is responsible for everything. You have to let it go.”

“Sir,” Javert tries again, shorter with his father than Enjolras has ever heard him. “Valjean has been spotted in the area recently. A man of African and native Carib descent with an African woman as his quartermaster. An ever-growing crew of pirates.”

“Why would he and his crew simply steal our shipment?” Michel asks. “Rather than engaging us? There’s no glory in that for them. And yes, he has been spotted in this area, but Port Royal is known for its harsh punishments on pirates, do you really think he’d be foolish enough to come here? I’m simply saying we cannot draw conclusions just yet.”

“Gentlemen,” the governor says as the two men come into their view, both starting slightly when they realize they aren’t alone. “Your journey has been interrupted, I take it?”

 “Yes,” Michel says, smoothing his jacket, his eyes flitting toward the stairs as Astra comes down them. She always finds a reason to stay home during these solitary meetings with his grandfather, Enjolras has noticed, and he feels a burst of gratitude toward his mother, who has never asked him to be anything other than himself, who has always protected him as best she could since their family started splintering. “We went to the ship this morning and most everything was missing,” Enjolras hears his father continue. “Cotton, silks, all the materials transferred to us from India that we were to distribute to several islands in the region.”

“And Javert suspects that pirate Fauchelevent?” the governor eyes, eyes flickering over to Javert for a moment.

“It is not out of the question,” Michel concedes. “Javert has excellent instincts. I only thought we might need a bit more investigation before we set on a suspect. It could have been simple thieves, though the extent of the job tells me pirates. How they managed to steal in the dead of night despite men stationed at the docks and without alerting anyone I am not certain.”

There’s silence for a moment, and Enjolras watches his mother take advantage of it, glancing at him for a moment with a sly smile.

“If all of you are tied up with this at present,” she says, looking at her father. “Father, I’m sure you’ll need to go down to the ship yourself, would it be all right if I took Rene into town?”

“Oh,” the governor says, and Enjolras feels the eyes of all three men on him as if they just realized he was still there. “Yes, I suppose that’s fine.” He gestures them away with his hand, and Enjolras barely spares his father and Javert a goodbye before his mother hands him his jacket and ushers him out the door and down the drive.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says once they are down the drive a bit. “I feared grandfather was about to have another one of his outbursts. What are we going to do in town?”

“Ah,” his mother says, grinning and raising a finger. “I am going to meet with a group of ladies in town. You are going to find Frantz and Auden at your secret spot you perhaps thought even I didn’t know about.”

At this, Enjolras shares her grin. “I suspected you might know, but didn’t want you to get in trouble with father or grandfather if they suspected you were lying when they ask where I am sometimes.”

His mother bends down to his level-she's tall for a woman, and despite his constant growth that frustrates the tailor, he's still not as tall as she-and cradles his face with her hand for a moment, pure love in just the touch of her fingers. In light of everything, as Enjolras watches his relationships with his father and Javert splinter, after Arthur's death, in face of his grandfather's abuse, the feeling warms him to the tips of his fingers and toes. He so often sees the power of hate: his grandfather's hatred of anyone with a drop of African blood, Javert's hatred of the pirate Fauchelevent, society's hatred of anyone who steps outside the line. But even in simple moments like these he's reminded of the almost overwhelming power of love, a feeling so strong that it steals his breath.

"You are a special young man," his mother says, and again Enjolras hears desperation, though it sounds different from what he often hears in his father's voice. "So is Frantz. And from what I can tell, so is that charming Auden." Her eyes twinkle. "Though don't tell Auden I said that, he'll let it go to his head. But don't forget that, all right? Don't let them take that light from you, Rene." 

"I won't, Mama," he says, using the term from his younger years. 

"Off you get," she says, tapping his cheek. 

He kisses her cheek and sets off at a run just in case anyone's come out of the house, and within ten minutes he's reached the tree grove, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's voices floating toward him on the breeze. 

"I win!" he hears Combeferre shout.

 "So you do," Courfeyrac says, good-natured and almost sounding proud. "You are as talented at this game as I am, it seems, your straight face is excellent. I could put you up against some of my best opponents at this rate." 

"Playing Faro again?" Enjolras asks as he walks up.

"Frantz's strategy improves every day," Courfeyrac says, beaming. "I made him play with me after I listened to him explain Galileo's longitudinal theory."

Combeferre flicks Courfeyrac in the arm. "Don't pretend you weren't interested," he says, dry. "If you want to sail you need to know something about navigation."

"Or _you_ need to know something about navigation," Courfeyrac says, grinning. "Rene and I will take care of the sword fighting."

"Excuse me," Combeferre says, offended but still smiling. "I am an excellent shot. And you need to know something about sailing, we wouldn't be battling all the time."

"I know all the parts of the ship and their purpose," Courfeyrac protests. "Don't I, Rene?"

"He does," Enjolras replies, letting their friendly banter sink into his spirit and release some of the tension in his muscles. 

"And Rene knows a great deal about steering and strategy," Courfeyrac continues. "We would make an excellent team, I feel. Captain, quartermaster, and navigator. Or sailing master, whichever term you prefer."

Enjolras feels both of his friends’ eyes land on him as he divests himself of his jacket and cravat, unbuttoning his waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves, still largely silent.

"Sound all right to you, Rene?" Courfeyrac asks, the glee in his voice dampened by concern. 

"Sounds perfect," Enjolras answers, sitting down beside them. 

"Everything all right?" Combeferre asks, raising both his eyebrows. 

"Oh," Enjolras answers. "Just my grandfather, you know. I see him enough as it is, and now these solitary hours with him once a week where I must sit and listen to him insult..." he trails off, realizing he's voiced something he'd intended to keep to himself. 

"Insults me?" Combeferre asks. "Rene, I've told you. I hate it but don't risk yourself for it, he's not going to change and it’s not worth the pain for you."

"I know he won't change," Enjolras replies, drawing a pattern in the sand with his finger. "But I don't like sitting there and listening and saying nothing. But it wasn't just you today, Frantz. He set his sights on Auden also."

"On me?" Courfeyrac asks, intrigued. "What did he say?"

"Just that privateers are from new money and their manners are lacking," Enjolras says, imitating his grandfather’s voice. "But he likes your father's success well enough to do business with him, so don't be surprised if your family is invited for dinner to my house soon enough. But he said the moment you became a bad influence or your father's success falters I wouldn't be allowed to see you anymore."

Anger sets Courfeyrac's dark green eyes aflame in an instant, a rare frown overtaking his features.  "Horrible old man," he mutters. "I'd like to see him try." 

"There was something interesting though," Enjolras adds. "Someone stole the shipment from my father's ship overnight. The one he's been waiting on all the way from India. He and Javert came in arguing."

"Javert arguing with your father?" Combeferre asks, tilting his head. "I never really thought I'd see the day. What about, exactly?"

"Javert thinks that pirate...Fauchelevent or Valjean or whatever the correct name is, stole the shipment."

"Your father thinks otherwise?" Courfeyrac asks. 

"He doesn't want to draw any conclusions yet," Enjolras answers. "I don't think it's because he's thinks Javert is wrong, it's that he thinks Javert is obsessed with this pirate since he escaped on Javert's watch six years ago. He was a convict back then, I suppose, so Javert feels responsible for him becoming a pirate in the first place."

"Well ever since my father..." Combeferre trails off, not quite finishing his sentence, but both the other boys know what he means. It's been a yeah and a half since Lieutenant Combeferre died, and if the knawing feeling in the pit of his stomach is any indication, Enjolras can only imagine what his friend feels. There's been more than one night when he's heard Combeferre's shouts from nightmares, sneaking into his friend's room to sit with him while he cries. They don't mention it in the morning, but Combeferre always thanks him with a wordless squeeze of the arm when they go down to breakfast. "What I mean to say is that Javert is your father's most trusted officer, even if he's not yet thirty. So it's just surprising."

"I think my father worries it will destroy Javert's career if he's reckless about going after Valjean," Enjolras says. "But I...well to be honest I admire Fauchelevent, from the stories I've heard. He and his crew allow anyone onto their ship, no matter race or sex or class as long as they can be trusted and need a place of refuge, from what people at the docks have told me."

Courfeyrac nods. "I spoke to a cabin boy who said there's rumors of clothes and money left at doorsteps at the poorest houses, largely on Barbados and Haiti and Nassau, right now. And they've overturned slave ships too. I read it in the papers." He stops, looking up at the other two, serious. "Do you two ever..." he stops, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. 

"Do we ever what?" Combeferre asks. 

"Have you ever thought of running away?" Courfeyrac asks, quick with his words. 

At this Combeferre and Enjolras' eyes meet and Courfeyrac doesn't miss it. 

"I'm sensing some disagreement?" Courfeyrac asks, voice going up a bit. 

"Just a difference in strategy," Enjolras answers. "Frantz wants to wait until he's of age and can gain his father's inheritance, which I largely agree with. I only..." he pauses, feeling anxiety rush through his veins. "I worry that if things get worse we would be left with no choice."

"You think things would get that bad?" Courfeyrac asks, worry creeping into his voice. 

"I don't know," Enjolras admits. "I only...I only know they aren't getting better. And I want to prepare for it if we have to. To have a plan in place, some money saved in case. Something.”

Silence wedges between them and Enjolras glances out at the small opening in the trees where he can see the ocean beyond. He looks back again, finding Combeferre’s eyes on the other end of his gaze.

“I just want to protect us,” Enjolras says, soft. “My mother tries, but my father, Javert, my grandfather…they have more power. My father is already breaking the promise he made to yours, even if he doesn’t think so. He underestimates my grandfather. He hurts me, but if he was able he would do worse to you and my father is just…he’s not brave enough to stop it.”

“I know,” Combeferre replies, sending a half-smile in Enjolras’ direction, assuring him that he’s not angry. “I only worry. If we get the money my father left me even if you are robbed of your inheritance we would be able to make it. Things were a bit easier for my mother and me because my father supplemented my mother’s income and sent us things we couldn’t get. It was hard still, because free Africans are persecuted at every turn, but we could afford food. We could afford shelter and clothing. But I saw people around me starving or scraping by. I saw the awful hardship and the slave runners.” He stops, breathing in. “If it comes to something like that, I want it to be as easy as possible. And money makes it easier.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac says. “I’m not saying you’ll have to run away, but you know, I have a bit of money put away from my….hobbies,” he grins, and Enjolras and Combeferre follow suit. “I could start putting more away in case of an emergency that requires us to get out quickly.”

“Us?” Enjolras asks, perking up and sharing a quick, curious glance with Combeferre.

“Well of course us,” Courfeyrac says, throwing a hand over his chest in mock offense, before his face grows serious, and he takes each of their hands in his own. “If either of you think that I’d let you run away out into the wild Caribbean sea without me, then you’ve lost your mind. We’re brothers.”

“But your family,” Combeferre questions, but he’s grasping Courfeyrac’s hand tighter. “What about them?”

“They scarcely know I exist,” Courfeyrac says, and the deep sadness running through his voice sounds unnatural, and it wounds Enjolras’ own heart when he hears it. “They used to, perhaps. But now they are too wrapped up in parties and growing wealth and power. I am a token. But not to the two of you.”

“Never,” Enjolras says, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand.

“I know you would be torn up about leaving your mother, if things get worse,” Courfeyrac says.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, remembering her desperation from earlier. “But I…something tells me she’d understand why. She got me out of the house earlier, sent me to the two of you.”

Quiet falls again, but something in the pact they’ve just made, the knowledge that they have each other, comforts Enjolras.

“Perhaps it will get better,” he hears himself say, but despite the overflowing reservoir of hope in his chest, a part of him knows it isn’t true, even if he wishes it were. Perhaps the hope is reserved for knowing they’ll escape this situation one day, rather than for the situation changing. Because even if it did, society does not change so quickly, and he cannot let go of the dream of sailing with Combeferre on the open ocean, now with Courfeyrac in tow. They sit there for a few moments, hands connected and lost in thought, until Courfeyrac’s voice, cheerful again, shatters the wall of melancholy.

“Well now that you’re here Rene, we shall play another game of Faro,” he says, pulling the cards out of his pocket. “Then perhaps we might win something to save, hmmm?”

Enjolras laughs in time with Combeferre and Courfeyrac deals the cards in front of each of them. In that moment though they’re stuck firmly in the present, Enjolras thinks he sees something of his future.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1702.**

“Why must I use the court sword?” Enjolras asks, examining the weapon. “We’ve sparred with the rapiers before, and sailors use cutlasses most often.”

“The court sword is best for practice right now,” Javert answers, unsheathing his own and examining it.

“Well if he’s not actually going to use that in a real situation then what’s the point?” Courfeyrac asks, and Javert feels an automatic spike of aggravation.

“Because,” Javert says, turning around. “One must master one thing at a time and then move forward. The governor and Captain Enjolras might drop by while we’re sparring today and I would prefer to show them the progress Rene has made so far than fumble through something to suit your fancy. The rapier is still a bit large.” He looks over at Enjolras, who still appears disappointed at the small weapon. “Why did you insist on bringing him along?”

“Because he wanted to come,” Enjolras answers, tilting his head. “When did my father say he might come by with my grandfather? They didn’t tell me.”

“My but you are inquisitive today,” Javert grumbles, eyes flitting over to Combeferre, who nose is nearly buried in a pile of pamphlets. “What are you reading, Frantz?”

Combeferre doesn’t seem to hear, eyes narrowing in thought as they move back and forth across the page.

“Frantz?” Javert asks once more as Courfeyrac and Enjolras chuckle in the background.

Combeferre jolts up at the sound of his name, looking surprised.

“Yes?”

“I asked what you were reading.”

“Oh,” he says, folding the pamphlet closed and marking his place. “Some old pamphlets by Edmond Halley that belonged to my father. Captain Enjolras found them and left them in my room with a note a few days ago.”

“The astronomer?” Courfeyrac asks.

Javert raises his eyebrows. “ _You_ know who Edmond Halley is?”

“My father makes his living sailing,” Courfeyrac says, and it irritates Javert that his response still sounds so good-natured despite the veiled insult. “And as I too, want to make my career in that fashion, I do occasionally read. Usually what Frantz recommends.”

“Well,” Javert says, feeling oddly self-conscious with the three thirteen-year-olds watching him. “Come on then Rene, let’s start.”

They begin, though it’s about ten minutes before Javert hears Governor Travers and Captain Enjolras approaching, speaking in somewhat hushed tones.

“There are rumors of bands of gypsies in the region over from France and Spain,” he hears the governor say. “You ought to keep a closer eye on your shipments, Michel.”

 _Romani_ , Javert hears his mother’s voice say in his head, unbidden. _Romani, not gypsy_. He feels his hand flinch, and Enjolras looks up, bewildered.

“Tighten your grip on the hilt, Rene,” he says, shaking his head slightly and focusing once more. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Combeferre gather his pamphlets at the sight of the governor, edging closer to Courfeyrac, who casually loops their arms together. Enjolras notices also, growing distracted for a moment. “Rene,” Javert says, repeating his name.

Javert advances, making a stance for an attack.

“Now deflect,” Javert says.

Enjolras does, and even these small swords make what Javert is sure Enjolras would call a ‘satisfying’ clang.

“Good show, Rene!” Courfeyrac calls out, and Enjolras grins in response, eyes catching on his friend for a moment.

“Auden please,” Javert hears Michel chide. “This is serious.”

“Must everything be _so_ serious Captain Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“This is quite serious young man,” the Governor says, and although Courfeyrac looks like he wants to retort, he falls silent, inching even closer to Combeferre.

Javert watches something flicker in Enjolras’ face, though he cannot put a name to the expression.

“Now fade,” Javert continues, eyes falling briefly to Enjolras’ feet so he can watch his footwork. Enjolras leaps backwards, his feet in the same position, but then immediately jumps forward again, and Javert’s caught off guard, eyes widening.

 _Empty fade_ , Javert thinks. _I should never have taught him that._

With the advantage Enjolras presses down on Javert’s sword, and though his much smaller size doesn’t allow him to hold for long, he does so longer than Javert expects, as if the strength comes from somewhere within. Javert’s height permits him to pull his own sword out from under Enjolras’, and in the split second of surprise Javert advances again and Enjolras quickly parries. They go back and forth for a few moments, Javert moving faster than he knows he should, the soldier in him overcoming the teacher for a moment as though he can’t quite convince his brain that this is a sparring session and not a battle. Enjolras nearly falls off balance at the sudden speed change but rights himself, and Javert watches the bewildered look on the boy’s face morph into determination. Enjolras matches his speed after a moment, their swords crossing above them perfectly in the middle. They glance at each other, and despite the scowl he feels on his own face, Enjolras’ smile reaches his eyes, looking exhilarated.

“Sheath,” Javert says, putting his own sword away quickly, feeling Enjolras’ curious eyes on him.

“Well done Rene,” Michel says, coming over and clasping his son on the shoulder. Although Enjolras doesn’t try and pull away, Javert feels the stiffness of the moment, the days of easy affection between father and son long disappeared. “I daresay you will be a force to be reckoned with when you’re older.”

“Javert has taught him well,” the governor says, an exceedingly rare smile on his face.

“Thank you governor,” Javert says, relieved that the captain and the governor didn’t seem to notice his small loss of control a few moments ago. “Your grandson is a solid swordsman for his age, but I appreciate your kind words.”

“Credit is given where it is due, lad,” the governor replies. “I can only hope that one day my grandson will be as disciplined as you are, instead of…wasting his time on less worthy pursuits.”

Javert watches the governor’s eyes flit over to Combeferre, his lip curling in disdain, and as soon the governor looks away Combeferre narrows his eyes. There’s a moment of silent communication between the three boys Javert notes, with Enjolras silently bidding the other two to go, no doubt hoping he’ll join them as soon as possible. With that Combeferre takes Courfeyrac’s arm and leads him, the latter looking back behind him before turning and whispering something in Combeferre’s ear as they walk. Enjolras clenches his right fist and undoes it again in a matter of seconds, closing his eyes for a moment as if calming himself down.  

“Are you quite all right Rene?” Governor Travers asks, noticing.

“Yes sir,” Enjolras replies.

“You should be grateful to Javert,” the governor continues, and Javert notices Michel’s shoulders tense as if preparing for a confrontation between his son and his father in law. “For being such a patient teacher.”

“I am, sir,” Enjolras replies, the tolerance in his own voice growing thin, forced politeness in every syllable.

“You have quite a natural talent,” the governor continues, patting Enjolras’ shoulder. “No doubt passed on from both sides of your lineage. A great deal to live up to.”

Enjolras smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, the expression more strained than Javert’s yet seen, his ability to play the part required of him fading with age. After a few minutes Captain Enjolras and Governor Travers depart, bidding Javert to meet them in half an hour on the ship. Enjolras watches them go, then looks back at Javert, a question in his eyes.

“Are you seeing your tutors today?” Javert asks, hoping he can distract the boy.

“No,” Enjolras answers. “They’re both on holiday until next week. What happened while we were sparring?”

Javert picks up both the court swords, avoiding Enjolras’ eyes.

“With the empty fade? You simply surprised me.”

“No,” Enjolras says. “When my grandfather and my father came up and my grandfather mentioned the gypsies in the area. Your hand twitched. You taught me to notice when my opponent’s grip changes, and yours loosened. I thought you might drop your sword for a moment.”

“You’re imagining things, Rene,” Javert says, turning on his heel and walking in the direction of the docks. “Go find your friends, I’m sure they’re waiting for you. 9 a.m. sharp here tomorrow for our last session before your father and I depart for two weeks. Do not be late.”

Enjolras doesn’t call out after him.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1702.**

“Rene, calm down,” Michel says, and it drives Enjolras insane that even when they’re arguing his father won’t raise his voice.

“I am perfectly calm,” Enjolras answers, voice still slightly raised. He cannot ever shout at his grandfather for fear of physical repercussion, but his father is another matter and Enjolras feels frustration build up and burst out, losing control over his tone and his volume and his emotions. “You don’t listen to a single word I say!”

He knows how petulant he sounds, but it’s true.

“That is untrue,” his father replies, folding his hands behind his back and pacing across the floor, a sure sign of his anger. “If anyone is not listening, my boy, I believe it’s you.”

Enjolras flinches at the way his father speaks the words _my boy_ as if they are a burden. He used to speak those words with affection or amusement, but now all Enjolras hears is irritation and disdain.

“Have you ever considered the reason for that?” Enjolras asks, lowering his voice now. “That perhaps it’s because you tell me what to wear, where to go, who I am allowed to spend my time with, and what my future will be?”

“I did not make the rules, Rene,” Michel says, stopping his pacing and looking at his son. “I am only following them. You were born to this position. You were born to this wealth and this title and this life. You act as if it is something terrible.”

“You did not used to be as intent on the rules,” Enjolras says. “Lieutenant Combeferre was your closest friend and he broke the rules.”

Michel slams his hand on the desk, the sound echoing through the room like a warning.

“Do not speak of Arthur,” he says, repeating the same refrain from the past two years. “What we are discussing here is your betrothal. That is the matter at hand.”

“I told you I have no interest,” Enjolras says, feeling his stomach sink at further mention of this. “I don’t want to be married, I….”

“You are thirteen,” Michel cuts in. “You have no idea what you want.”

“I wouldn’t be married for at least another decade,” Enjolras argues. “Why are you so intent on betrothing me now?”

“Rene do not play the fool,” Michel says, annoyance grating his tone. “You know how things are done. You know some children in your position are betrothed at birth. It is a matter of finding the best suitable girl to be your wife, to help you carry on the line, if we wait too long…”

“Those girls are not livestock father,” Enjolras says. “They should have a choice in their own future. In their own marriage at the very least. They deserve to have someone interested in marriage in the first place.”

His father sighs, turning his back to Enjolras and placing his palms flat on his desk.

“Son,” he says, and Enjolras hears his voice temper. “I know what this is truly about. You want to sail, and you want to do so with Frantz. And I’m sorry, but it just cannot be. You will have a career at sea. But Frantz must stay here. He will have a life here, but you cannot always be together as you are now. You have responsibilities and there are limits to his accessibility. _That_ is the reality.”

“So it’s all right for the Royal Navy to press gang free Africans into service,” Enjolras says, voice stabbing through the air in accusation. “And it’s all right for Africans to serve as slaves on ships, but they cannot sail as equals?”

 _Pirates sail as equals_ , he wants to say. _There are mulatto captains elected to leadership by their crews_. But he knows better than to let those words escape his lips if he doesn’t want to spend an indefinite amount of time locked in his bedroom.

“Our society functions the way that it does for a reason,” Michel says, turning around again, and he looks tired. “One must find their place and stay within it.”

“You are uneasy with morality behind the slave trade, I heard you say so when I was younger,” Enjolras continues, feeling that overwhelming compassion flood through him, that desire to _do_ something, to _change_ something that he doesn’t quite know what do with. He’d felt it that day when they stumbled upon the slave auction. He feels it whenever he sees the slaves in his grandfather’s house. He feels it when he sees people begging in the street in front of a house that costs more than they earn in the entirety of a year. “Yet you do not fight against it. You carry cargo brought from slave plantations. You took Frantz in as your own, yet you think he isn’t as capable of things as I might be when there’s all evidence to the contrary. You stand in the middle, always. Why won’t you just take a side? You encourage Frantz’s interest in sailing and learning about navigation but then you say he’ll never be able to take on that role?” His voice is rough with desperation, wishing his father would simply listen, wishing that things would change even if he knows it might only result in disappointment. He will try anyway.

“This is more complex than simple sides,” Michel says, the condescension clear in his tone. “We must all operate within the framework given to us. Our economy is built on certain provisions. Things are the way they _are_.”

“You sound like Javert,” Enjolras remarks, turning away himself now, hearing the ice in his voice douse the fire of a few moments ago. His eyes run over the walls of his father’s study, landing on the painting just above his desk. It’s of his parents and himself when he was five and they’d been in Jamaica for two years. He’d fidgeted during the painting, but his smile in it is genuine, and as his own eyes catch on it, his father looks up as well.

“There was a time when you saying that would have been a glowing review as opposed to saying it with scorn,” Michel says, eyes lingering on the painting for a moment until he looks away from the image and back and his real, breathing son. “Javert meant a great deal to you.”

“Well if he didn’t always think he knows best,” Enjolras says. “If he didn’t tell me what to do, if…”

“He wants what’s best for you,” Michel interrupts. “As I do.”

“How can you possibly know what’s best for me if you don’t even truly know me?” Enjolras asks.

“Rene,” Michel says, drawing out the name through clenched teeth.

“You don’t,” Enjolras presses. “And you haven’t for some time. And before you say you know Frantz, you don’t. You’ll barely even utter his father’s name in front of him…”

Something like danger flashes in in his father’s eyes, but Enjolras doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, fists clenched and feet planted, staring Michel down.

“I specifically told you not to bring up Arthur.”

“I can bring him up if I wish,” Enjolras says, hearing his voice rise again. “You aren’t the only one who loved him. I loved him too. And most of all, Frantz loved him. You promised Lieutenant Combeferre you would take care Frantz, you promised him with his dying breath, and no matter how many fine clothes you buy him, you aren’t keeping your promise. You let Grandfather say terrible things about him and to him, things Lieutenant Combeferre would never have allowed, you let Grandfather strike me. You…” he hesitates, meeting his father’s eyes again, daring, a punch of sadness socking him in the gut. “I used to think you were so brave.”

His father narrows his eyes, his posture still perfectly straight, but for the first time he looks truly small.

“I am _trying_ …” he begins.

“No you aren’t,” Enjolras says, seizing his jacket from the chair and pulling it on, walking swiftly toward the door.

“We are not done, Rene,” his father says, bewilderment at his sudden exit mixing with the anger. “You do not leave in the middle of a conversation.”

Enjolras ignores him, pushing through the swinging doors, not breaking into a run until he’s halfway down the stairs, dashing out the front door and towards the shore. He doesn’t expect his father to follow him, but he looks behind him a few times anyway, keeping an ear out for footsteps trailing him. After a few moments he finds a spot on the rocks a bit back from the water, sitting and catching his breath. He’s just barely relaxed, however, when he does hear footsteps behind him, but they’re heavier than his father’s, and without even looking behind him, he’s certain it’s Javert approaching.

Enjolras looks up, the sky a canvas of dark blue dotted with stars, light smeared against the dark, and thinks he should have known Javert would find him here. The waves crash onto the sand below them, the sound of the ocean’s rumble muffled from their height. The puddle of moonlight Enjolras sits in casts Javert’s black hair silver as he sits down, and it softens his usual imposing figure.

“Did my father send you?”

“No,” Javert responds. “I was simply out walking and saw you here. Seems we share a similar favorite spot. Though you usually prefer the sunrise to the stars.”

A half smile slides onto Enjolras’ face, but it’s weighted down with loss and nostalgia despite the fact that one of the people he misses sits directly beside him.

“Why are you out here?” Javert asks, prodding into Enjolras’ silence.

“An argument with my father.”

“Where is Frantz?”

Enjolras hesitates, feeling that familiar sharp pain in his side he usually gets every year on the day Arthur Combeferre died.

“Asleep,” Enjolras says, looking Javert in the eyes for a brief moment before looking away again. “It’s been two years since his father died today, and he…he doesn’t sleep well around this time. I didn’t want to bother him.”

There’s a pause, and Javert reaches his hand out, fingers brushing against Enjolras’ shoulder for a second as if in comfort, but then he pulls back, clearing his throat. For a moment Enjolras thinks Javert will simply force him home, but there’s a shared feeling in the air, as if both of them reach for something that continually slips out of their grasp.

“Why were arguing with your father?”

“He was talking about arranging my betrothal,” Enjolras replies, feeling uncomfortable at the thought. “I…I do not want to be betrothed. The girl he mentioned, she’s perfectly nice, I’ve spoken to her before, but I have no desire to be married, I don’t…I know other boys my age feel certain…desires, but I don’t…” he trails off, unable to articulate what he’s thinking in full.

“You are thirteen,” Javert answers. “It will come. I am not well-versed in these matters, but marriages for someone of your stature must be planned early.”

Enjolras remains silent, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, staring out at the ocean as a breeze ruffles through their hair. Several strands of his come loose; Javert’s stays almost perfectly in place.

“It cannot be so bad, the life awaiting you,” Javert says, and though his tone is still filled with its usual terseness, Enjolras hasn’t heard him sound so soft in a long time. This is the Javert he misses, the young man he saw caring about him despite himself, flashes of real humanity breaking forth and bleeding out through the stone he carefully built up. He looks over at Javert’s words and sees a momentary crack in this man he’d looked at like a strange brother, and he metaphorically reaches out, hoping against hope.

“I am trapped,” he whispers, his throat constricting against what feels like oncoming tears, but his eyes stay dry. “My job is set for me. My life is set for me. A marriage is set for me. I have no choice.”

“On the contrary, you have more freedom than you realize,” Javert says, and Enjolras sees the crack closing, and Javert hardens again. “You only refuse to see it. To see this life that has been handed to you.”

“I don’t refuse,” Enjolras snaps. “I see it all, and even if I didn’t, my grandfather would knock it back into me rather literally, now wouldn’t he?” He glares back at Javert, breathing hard with anger, a challenge in his eyes.

“I have no control over your grandfather,” Javert tries, but Enjolras cuts him off.

“You don’t stop him,” Enjolras retorts. “My father doesn’t stop him and my mother cannot, no matter how hard she tries.”

“Your father only cares about your well-being out of love,” Javert says.

“He doesn’t…” Enjolras struggles with the words, because he’s never said them aloud, but he knows they’re true. “He loves what I am. Not who I am. It’s the same with Frantz.”

“Your father took Frantz in.”

“Yes. But when he looks at him all he sees is Arthur, and even more than that, all he sees is color. He limits Frantz because of that. He always has, even if Frantz is the most intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

Silence wedges between them and Javert says nothing, eyes looking up and scanning the stars as if searching for answers. Enjolras watches as Javert reaches into his pocket, hand searching around for something.

“Why do you flinch when my grandfather mentions gypsies?” Enjolras asks, knowing he probably shouldn’t.

“What?” Javert asks, pulling his hand back out of his pocket and whipping around to face Enjolras.

“Gypsies,” Enjolras emphasizes. “Last month when we were sparring with the court swords my grandfather mentioned that there had been reported sightings of gypsies on the area and you flinched. It wasn’t the first time, either. Then you wouldn’t answer me when I asked. You said I was imagining things.”

“You have no business prying into my affairs,” Javert says, biting.

“Well then you admit there’s something to pry into,” Enjolras replies. “And why not? You insert yourself into my business all the time.”

“You are a child,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “It is not the same.”

Enjolras huffs, resting his chin on his knees, annoyed now that Javert won’t simply leave him alone. Javert looks over and Enjolras feels his eyes on him, as if he’s contemplating what he’ll say next. As if he’s deciding something.

“You do not know what it is like to have to work for the respect of others,” Javert finally says, piquing Enjolras’ curiosity, and he looks up again. “You have been handed life on a platter and all you wish to do is toss it away. You belong to a worthy, noble family. It is extremely frustrating to me to watch you disregard that. To watch you mingle with riff-raff when you go down to the docks. You do not belong with those people.”

Enjolras wants to shout at him, he wants to show him every place his grandfather left a bruise, but they’re already faded, and you can’t see the ones that aren’t physical. He wants to tell him about the disappointed expression on Combeferre’s face every time society limits what he can and cannot do, when he sees people of his race enslaved and abused. But there’s a strange vulnerability in Javert’s expression as if he’s about to divulge something, so Enjolras remains quiet, opening the way for Javert to continue. Javert looks at him, a short sigh escaping as if he knows he will regret his words the instant he says them.

“My parents were of Romani descent,” Javert says, looking away and staring out into the distance. "They dabbled in piracy. They painted me with their legacy, with their sins, with their heritage. You do not understand what that is like, Rene. You never will.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the object he’d unconsciously reached for earlier. A leather bracelet, Enjolras sees, made for a child. The word _Romani_ is etched across the inside. “This is the one object from my past I am still in possession of,” he continues. “I keep it as a reminder to never stray off the path I walk. As a reminder of the life for which I strive and the life I’ve left behind. Your father is generous enough to forgive my background, but that is not so common.”

 _Your grandfather might not forgive it_ , is what Javert doesn’t say, and now Enjolras knows why Javert flinches when his grandfather says the word _gypsies_ with such disgust on his tongue.

“Javert,” Enjolras tries, a great number of things clicking into place in his mind. “You shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage just as Frantz shouldn’t be ashamed of his. No one is less than…”

“The people I descend from are thieves and scoundrels,” Javert interrupts, finally looking back, voice harsh and eyes glinting with ire. “I have worked all my life to leave that behind, to build a reputation of honor. There is no excuse for piracy and theft and lawlessness, no matter what your circumstance, no matter what the intent. The law exists so that we follow it. And you…you should be more grateful for your father. For everything you have.”

“Javert…” Enjolras tries, confused as both frustration and empathy flood his veins.

“No,” Javert barks, swiping his hand through the air. “That is enough. I’m taking you home, you shouldn’t be out this late.”

“You were not concerned about my being out here just minutes ago,” Enjolras argues.

“Nevertheless,” Javert responds, standing and seizing Enjolras’ sleeve, hauling him upward. “I’m taking you home. Where you belong.”

Enjolras remains silent, knowing the fight is pointless, but he does pull out of Javert’s grasp, side-stepping as they walk.

“I can walk on my own, thank you,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t need you to haul me all the way home. You’re just angry because you shared something with me. Because you dared show me a side of you I thought lost.”

Javert says nothing.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1703.**

Astra Enjolras hears the front door open as she sits at her armoire taking out her hair pins. It’s well past eleven and she suspects Rene and Frantz are asleep, so it can only be Michel, who was home for dinner and then off again with little indication where he was going aside from a quick utterance about working late, which certainly wasn’t abnormal. A few minutes pass and she doesn’t hear him come up the stairs, so she turns back to the task at hand. She frees her hair from the rest of the pins and shakes it out, a few blonde strands shedding onto her dressing gown. She takes off her jewelry, her hand stilling as it usually does over the bracelet she wears on her left arm. It was a trinket from her friend Imogen in England, given as a gift mere days before her wedding to Michel, a secret meeting shared in whispers and listening for the sound of footsteps, as both Imogen’s parents and her own father forbid them from seeing each other. Astra still remembers her heart hammering in her chest as Imogen smiled, clasping the bracelet around her arm, fingers lingering on her wrist. 

Astra feels herself pulled from the memory as the smell of perfume wafts up the stairs, the sound of Michel’s boots putting pressure on the wood. She turns toward the half open door, thinking perhaps her husband will go to his study down the hallway or to his bedroom, but she doesn’t hear the usual creak in the floor that comes when he walks past her room. She continues fiddling with the items on her armoire, feeling eyes on her. This continues for a solid thirty seconds or so until she looks up, catching Michel’s eyes in the mirror. He flinches like a schoolboy caught staring at the girl he’s enamored with, but to her surprise he steps in, his figure filling the door frame, but he doesn’t step all the way into the room. She doesn’t look up from arranging things on her armoire, but one of her hands curls over a bundle of hairpins. 

"Your mistress wears strong perfume, Michel,” she says, refusing to look at him. “You reek of it."

"You abandoned our marital bed months ago, Astra,” he says. His tone is odd and without malice. He’s not interested in arguing, but sounds so matter of fact that it drives her to distraction, because she doesn’t know why he’s here in the first place. “What would you have me do?"

“Do as you wish,” she says, biting out the words in anger. And truth be told, she doesn’t really care about his mistress, she cares about his lack of discretion. Given all he’s allowed to happen she can scarcely look at him as it is, let alone for intimacies she only took part in because of her role as a wife, a role that if played badly, would raise questions. There was a reason they’d only had one child, and she’s suspected him of affairs before. “But do not embarrass me. Do not be so reckless. Do not come in late so disheveled where anyone might have seen you. I’d prefer our family discord not out in the open, and I was certain that at least on that we agreed. You usually show a great deal of discretion. And what will you do if you impregnate this woman? Simply leave her with a child and on her own so you don’t stain your reputation? It’s cruel Michel. More cruelty than I thought you capable of.”

“I am careful,” he insists, tone still flat. Even from here she can smell the alcohol on him, and although he’s never opposed to a glass of wine she’s never seen him like this, clothes ruffled, hair untidy and the smell of liquor on his breath. He’s cracking around the edges, she thinks, but he won’t do anything to stop the cause, caught as he is between wishing for the love of his wife and son and his career. “That will not happen.”

“Women are constantly paying for the sins of men,” she says. “So pardon me if I don't believe you." She looks up at him again, seeing a crack in his stoicism, but he doesn't say anything. "Nevertheless," she continues. "For someone so concerned with image I am surprised at seeing you throw caution to the winds. There’s no need for you to come in here when you arrive home from your activities. You never have before. What could you hope to achieve?”

"You did not want to marry me Astra,” he says, but there’s defensiveness in his tone, a sadness. “I didn’t suppose it would bother you so much.”

Her hands clench over the edge of the armoire, knuckles popping white as the blood rushes to her fingertips. Her mind flashes back to London and the sound of a door flying open, her father’s shouts when he’d found her kissing Imogen in her bedroom. Rumors of her ‘flirtations,’ with Imogen, as her father called them-the fact that she’d been in love fell on deaf ears- spread through London, and so her father not only locked her in a cage, he threw away the key and married her off to the child of a business contact in Paris, a second son in a noble family who was in need of a wife and desired the career at sea with East India her father could offer. A country away, Michel’s family, nor Michel himself, knew anything of the incident in London. Her father forbade her from telling her new husband, and for once, Astra obeyed. It was too personal, too precious a memory to share, too painful to know she’d likely never see Imogen again, the way she’d never see way her dark brown hair brushing against her cheek when she laughed, a sound that always lifted Astra’s heart. Besides that, it was not as if Michel would have accepted or understood. She’d heard more than one story of dalliances between society boys at their boarding schools, but other than that, people’s attraction to their own sex wasn’t discussed, and if it happened it was shut off quickly. Her father had called it a ‘youthful indiscretion” insisting that marriage to a man would change her, but of course she never believed it, and it never did. So it was another secret she carried.

She thinks of Javert and the convict and the slave woman who escaped on his guard, remembers pulling just such a pair into the house as guards chased them through Port Royal on a night when Michel and Rene were out sailing, both of them looking desperate and splintered at the seams, a current of anger running beneath. The man had looked much older than his thirty years, and the woman clasped a locket that belonged to her daughter tightly in her hand. Astra is almost certain they are same pirates Javert and Michel hunt so obsessively now, never knowing her hand in helping them. Another secret. Sometimes she feels made up of more secrets than truth. 

"You ass,” she says, finally turning to face him, her voice raised but still a whisper. “Trying to pretend like that woman you bedded didn't look like me, that you didn't fall in love with me on first sight.” She digs in, hearing the spite in her own voice but she doesn’t tone it down. She knows what she says is true, and it’s why she’s largely allowed to do as she pleases. Michel steps back a bit, angry hurt flashing in his eyes. “No, I didn't want to marry you. But I did grow to care about you. To love you, in my way, as best I could even if it wasn’t in the way you wanted. You are the father of my son. You are written all over him just as I am. You used to be a good man. Ever since Arthur..."

"Do not speak about Arthur,” Michel says, stepping into the room now, his voice cut through with cold. “You still haven't answered my question. What would you have me do?" He softens, and this time the question is not about his affairs, because he knows that’s not the point. It is a rare showcasing of vulnerability, and though she doesn’t hold out hope for their relationship or even for Michel himself, she maintains it for Rene, for Frantz, appealing to the happy memories she sees playing in her husband’s eyes. 

"Step in for our Rene. For Frantz,” she says, a rare crack in her voice.  “My father is going to ruin everything and you are letting him. His approval cannot matter so much, Michel."

"Rene must behave,” Michel answers, retreating back behind his mask. “He must take on the mantle he was born to. It is what is best for him, and he behaves as if it is some horror, as if he will not have wealth and position and a career at sea. He wants to go to sea. And Frantz is safer with me than he would be anywhere else. You know that."

“He wants to go to sea with Frantz,” Astra emphasizes. 

“One cannot always get what they wish,” Michel says, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, his eyes meeting hers. Michel reaches out continually, but it’s never far enough to mend the hurt, it’s never far enough to change things. 

 _Oh_ , Astra wants to say. _I know_. She’d known from the moment she was ripped away from her life in England to come live on this hot, humid island away from anything and everything she’d ever known, where she must play the role of happy wife and socialite, when really the only things bringing her joy most days are Rene and Frantz. Her acquaintances are many, her real friends, few.  _Try being a woman on for size_ , she wants to shout.

“Then why did you come here Michel?” she asks. “If you were not looking to repent? If you were not looking for a forgiveness that I cannot offer unless you do what I ask? My son, my only child is hurting, Frantz feels unsafe in a place that is supposed to be his home and you are allowing it.”

He flinches visibly at those words as if remembering something she wasn’t present for, but doesn’t speak.

“You say you love them but…”

“Of course I love them, Astra,” Michel says, shouting the words, irate now. “Don’t you dare say otherwise!” 

“Prove it,” Astra says, her words a hiss, watching Michel’s earlier vulnerability fade, replaced with not a father, not a husband, but a captain running his ship. “I hear you, Javert, my father, I hear all of you say you love Rene, but none of you has shown it recently. My father certainly has done the opposite. Do something, Michel. Protect your son. Keep your promise to Arthur and keep Frantz safe. You are going to lose them, and I know in your heart that’s not truly what you want.”

Michel opens his mouth and closes it again, his words trapped within him somewhere, lost in the push and pull of his conflict between love and power. But as he looks at her again, she sees the man she thought she knew all these years ago fade into someone else. She doesn’t see the man whose eyes lit up the first time he saw his son, whose eyes matched his own. She doesn’t have the feeling she did then, that despite everything, despite aching for Imogen, despite leaving physical reminders of her childhood and her long departed mother all the way back in England, despite the fact that she could never love Michel in the way he wanted, that maybe they could be a family. Instead she sees a man who cannot find his courage. A man who is a stranger, and she thinks that she should have seen this coming. He turns on his heel, exiting the room, and in an instant Astra feels the tears fill her eyes. She rests her face in her hands, letting them leak quietly out, warm and wet on her skin. She scarcely allows herself these moments, but right now control is beyond her. After a moment she hears the floor creak behind her, hearing two sets of steps, and she knows just from the sound that neither belong to Michel. 

“Mother?” Rene asks, hesitating in the doorway, Frantz standing behind, looking concerned. 

Astra sniffs, wiping her eyes and gesturing them inside and Frantz, ever perceptive, shuts the door behind him. 

“I’m sorry darlings,” she says, reaching out for each of their hands. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Are you all right?” Rene asks, and she hears the change in his voice, growing deeper now that he’s thirteen, and she does her best not to tease him when it cracks. 

“Yes,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I simply…”

“We heard the end of your argument with father,” he says, expression serious, eyes narrowed as if he intends on speaking to Michel himself, a hint of something fearsome in his gaze. “He upset you. You were arguing about…” he softens, looking like a child again. “Me. And Frantz.”

“You know I am unhappy with how your father handles your grandfather’s behavior toward you and toward Frantz. I am unhappy with his priorities. This time was no different.”

“I don’t want to be the cause of your unhappiness,” Rene begins. “I…”

“Hush,” Astra answers, putting a finger over his lips. “You could never be the cause of my unhappiness. Neither of you could. I will not have you be someone you’re not to please your grandfather or your father. Or me, for that matter.” 

I know far too well how that feels, is what she doesn’t say aloud. 

At this, Rene reaches out, embracing her, and she feels the immensity of the love within it even for someone so young. He hardly ever embraces his father or Javert anymore, let alone his grandfather, so even though his hands grasp the material of her dressing gown as if he never wants to let go, even if this is borne out of sadness, his trust feels like a privilege. She returns it with all her might, opening her arm after a moment and pulling Frantz inward. 

“Thank you,” Frantz murmurs as they pull apart. He looks shy, but determined, meeting her eyes and not looking away. 

“For what, dear?” she asks, curious. 

“For looking out for me,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “For keeping the promise you made to my father.” 

“He deserves nothing less,” Astra says, sincere, and she sees Frantz’s eyes twinkle in response. “And the same goes for you.” 

Quiet falls between them for a moment, and Astra takes the opportunity to wipe her eyes. The boys, bless them, say nothing. As she does, a thought occurs to her. 

“I know Auden’s been teaching you cards,” she says, a hint of mischief in her voice. “Care to show me the game?” 

Both boys look surprised, but then they grin in unison. It’s just that expression, Astra thinks, that unbridled joy she sees in their eyes that she will protect with everything in her.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1704.**

If you could die of boredom, Courfeyrac thinks, he might very well not make it through this dinner. He might collapse right here at fourteen years and six months of age, never to see another day.

“Auden,” his mother whispers from her place next to him. “Sit up. You’re slouching.”

“Yes mother,” he grumbles, straightening his back and sitting up, thinking that while this chair likely costs more than he can imagine, it’s not terribly comfortable.

His mother pats his arm with her wrist adorned with jewels, offering a smile that is a reflection of his own. He opens his mouth, about to engage her, but she turns away almost immediately, starting a conversation with Madam Enjolras, who catches his disappointed expression. He turns, facing Enjolras, who sits across from him. His friend’s expression resembles marble, no doubt to keep the emotions Courfeyrac sees swimming around in his eyes from bursting out and causing a stir. Combeferre’s absence from the table is marked, and Courfeyrac imagines him sitting in his room pouring over a book in an attempt at forgetting he’s been deliberately excluded from the evening’s gathering. Courfeyrac smiles at Enjolras, and after a moment Enjolras returns it, a small smile sliding across his lips. Courfeyrac’s ears perk when he hears his father’s voice break through the cloud of monotonous conversation, and the words he hears pique his interest. He nudges Enjolras’ foot under the table, and his friend looks up from his plate, catching Courfeyrac’s eye before turning toward the adults.

“More Africans are pouring into the region to the sugar plantations,” Courfeyrac hears his father say. “And some to the tobacco. I assume East India has some kind of hand in that trade?”

Courfeyrac watches Michel’s eyes look at his son out of the corner of his eye, shifting ever so slightly in his chair and clearing his throat, folding the fingers of his left hand toward his palm. To everyone else he’s just adjusting in his seat, but to Courfeyrac it’s a signal this his friend’s father is hiding something.

“Some East India ships do transport slaves,” he says, vague as to whether or not his own is one of them. “Generally just around the islands in the Caribbean, though that obviously stretches rather a fair distance.”

Courfeyrac feels his heart pound in his chest, pumping stinging fury through him. When he was younger and his father was just a simple if reasonably well-off merchant sailor, Courfeyrac remembers sitting on the deck of the ship, his father talking about the honor of his profession, his love of the open ocean. But then the years passed and his father made even more money, earning a name for himself until he was offered the privateer’s commission on behalf of England. They’d moved to Jamaica, though his father was gone more often than not. Courfeyrac was nine, and nothing was really ever the same. Truth be told, Courfeyrac saw scarcely any honor in what his father did now.

“I suspect the economy here will boom even more,” Courfeyrac’s father answers. “You hear some people question European colonization but I ask you, has this region ever been better off?”

“Decidedly not,” Governor Travers answers, sipping his wine. “I daresay it was savagery before colonization. And now look.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes dart back over to Enjolras, whose hands have abandoned his utensils and gone to his lap, where he’s no doubt twisting his fingers in an attempt to hide his frustration.

 _Or perhaps_ , he hears Enjolras say in his head. _The native people who lived here had a way of life that was their own._

 More often than not lately, Courfeyrac’s found Enjolras and Combeferre down at the docks speaking to sailors, and he gets them the sorts of newspapers and pamphlets that would never be allowed in the Enjolras household. Here on the house on the hill in Port Royal, it might be easy to ignore the plights of the people below. Clearly the adults among them have no issue doing so, though from the flicker of upset he sees in Astra Enjolras’ face before she smooths out the creases, at least one of them is on their side.

“It offers a bright future for our sons,” Courfeyrac hears his mother add.

“Indeed it does, Madame Courfeyrac,” Governor Travers says, and although Courfeyrac knows it was the governor’s idea to gather them all together for supper in light of the work Courfeyrac’s father does in tandem with East India, he doesn’t miss the superior tone in the old man’s voice.

Another agonizing three-quarters of an hour pass, and finally Courfeyrac and Enjolras find their escape as the men pour brandy and Courfeyrac’s mother engages Madam Enjolras in a discussion of fashion trends. No one notices as they slip off up the stairs and toward Combeferre’s room.

“Are you done early?” Combeferre asks as they enter, sitting up from his position laying against the pillows, a book resting closed beside him.

“Escaped,” Courfeyrac says, falling onto the bed without ceremony. “They scarcely noticed, though I don’t know how long that will last.”

“How was it?” Combeferre asks.

“Frightful,” Enjolras replies, fiddling with his cravat. “They went on for ages.”

Courfeyrac remains silent for a moment, watching as Enjolras sits down on the other side of Combeferre, nudging him with his elbow and smiling softly. He remembers Captain Enjolras’ odd movements at the table when his father mentioned the slave trade, and wishes there was a way to delicately bring up his suspicions to his friends. Regrettably, he decides, there isn’t.

“I don’t really know an easy way to bring this up,” he says, uneasy as his friends’ eyes dart over at the sound of his voice. “But I think your father is transporting slaves, Rene.”

“What?” Enjolras asks, his voice going up a bit, though he doesn’t sound entirely surprised at the suspicion. “What makes you say so?”

“He acted strangely at dinner when my father mentioned the slave trade and East India’s hand in it,” Courfeyrac says, watching as Combeferre’s hand clenches lightly over the bed coverings. There’s been no word from his mother in three years, and he knows his friend fears she’s been captured by slave runners.

“How so?” Combeferre asks, tilting his head.

“He hesitated before he spoke, his looked out of the corner of his eye at Rene as if he didn’t want him suspecting,” Courfeyrac replies, the scene playing in his head. “He shifted in his seat. It was small, but I don’t think it was coincidental. When does he sail out again?”

“Tomorrow fairly early,” Enjolras answers. “I’ve been wondering if he was but I didn’t have any proof.”

“We should go…” Combeferre begins, determination in his eyes, but he’s cut off by the sound of a knock on the door.

“Boys?” Captain Enjolras asks as he opens the door, a plate with a single slice of cake balanced on his left hand. “Ah. There you are. You need to come back downstairs for dessert. We didn’t know where you’d gotten to.”

His words, Courfeyrac thinks, don’t match his expression. He’d known exactly where they’d gone.

“Then what’s the slice of cake for?” Enjolras asks, challenging his father.

“Well for Frantz, of course,” Michel says, uncomfortable. “Wouldn’t want him missing out.”

“Of course not,” Frantz mutters, sarcasm in his voice.

“What’s that Frantz?” Michel asks, that nervous smile still plastered to his lips, but it’s obvious he heard Combeferre’s words.

“Nothing sir,” he says, taking the plate when it’s offered and sitting it on the bedside table. He catches Captain Enjolras’ eye for a split second before turning away, frowning and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Come along then boys,” he says, ushering Enjolras and Courfeyrac out the, but hesitating in the doorway.

Courfeyrac takes Enjolras’ wrist with his hand as they listen, feeling the tension so thick in the air he almost chokes on it. Michel disappears into the room again, but he leaves the door ajar, the voices still perfectly audible.

“Frantz,” they hear Michel say. “I’m sorry, my lad, but…”

“My father would have never even entertained the idea of my not sharing table with the household,” Combeferre says, his voice steely, and Courfeyrac feels Enjolras’ pulse speed up at those words.

“Your father…” Michel tries, trailing off. There’s a pause, and then Michel speaks again, and they hear him pat the bed twice with his hand. “Enjoy the cake.”

Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras away from the door and they dash down the stairs so Michel doesn’t know they were listening. As they reach the landing Enjolras pulls Courfeyrac close, whispering in his ear.

“I think you were right,” he says, barely audible. “And I think before he was cut off Frantz was suggesting we go see for ourselves. Tomorrow morning we’ll go and see if my father is transporting slaves.”

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1704.**

Courfeyrac meets them in the side-garden the next morning. Enjolras closes the door as quietly as possible behind him, stopping for a moment and listening for the sounds of footsteps. When he hears nothing he turns around to his friends. Their faces are pinched with anxious anticipation and a dusting of fear, but they're no less determined. 

"When you said morning," Courfeyrac says with a pronounced yawn. "I didn't know you meant before the sun was up."

"They set sail two hours after sunrise," Enjolras says. "I just wanted to make sure we weren't caught."

"I'm mostly teasing you my friend," Courfeyrac says with a sad smile. "Adding some lightheartedness to this unfortunate errand."

Enjolras and Combeferre both chuckle, but Enjolras notices Combeferre stuff his hands into his pockets, a sure sign of his nerves. If they discover what they fear, they will all be upset, but none of them more so than Combeferre, and Enjolras hopes that Courfeyrac's suspicions aren't right. Enjolras reaches and squeezes Combeferre's arm and his friend looks over, a smile sliding onto his face for a moment. 

"No matter what we find," Courfeyrac says, growing serious. "We are together. You were right to say we should go and look, Frantz. We need to know what's happening. You need to know."

"Yes," Combeferre says, nodding. "I do."

"Let's go," Enjolras says, leading them out, his eyes trailing over the garden as they exit. It's his mother's special area, and he often finds her out here tending to her flowers, which bloom more beautifully than any others in the surrounding houses. It's an outer reflection of her spirit, he thinks, and a wave of melancholy washes over him, knowing his mother deserves better. Sometimes he senses the secrets in her, and hopes that one day he'll know them. 

Enjolras knows the path to the docks by heart, even in the darkness. At the tip of the horizon the sun is just barely peeking over the edge, casting an amber glow over the ground as they walk, though most of the sky remains dark. As they approach the docks Enjolras feels his heart smashing against his chest and he stops short of the walkway leading to his father's ship. It looms oddly ominous against the still mostly darkened sky, a single ray of orange-red sunlight striking one of the sails. Fear creeps into his heart like poison, spreading through his veins until his hands tremble. 

He doesn't know how he's certain, but something awful awaits them on this ship, this ship that was once the place he was happiest, this ship that holds some of his most cherished memories. It looks a bit worse for the wear after the storm three years ago, but the mast that broke and killed Arthur looks like new, and there's no sign of the blood of the man who was the only one who could have saved them from all the things that happened since he died. Enjolras has been on the ship many times since then, but the scratches and the splintered wood toward the edges seems more prominent now in the lack of light. He feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac each take one of his hands, and they press together for a moment before walking onward, the sea and salt worn wood creaking under their feet. Usually that sound is one of Enjolras' favorites, but today it only adds to frightening atmosphere around him.

"We have to go down below," Combeferre says once they reach the deck. "There won't be any sign on deck."

Combeferre leads the way down to the cargo hold, and Enjolras hates even thinking the word, hates the idea that human beings could be considered as such. They walk slowly down the stairs, but a stench hits their noses before they're halfway through. 

"That is potent," Courfeyrac says, his voice ripping at the seams because it's almost inevitable now that his suspicions were correct. "What the..."

Combeferre pushes the door open, and the sight before their eyes makes Enjolras want to vomit. 

Rows of men and women sit chained together in front of them, all hunched together and crowded in the small space. Wet, humid heat rests like a fog in the air, choking their breath and sending sweat pouring down their faces. The smell no doubt arises from that mixed with excrement that has nowhere to go. Some of the slaves look up, but others still sleep in the fashion of those who aren't truly getting any rest. Enjolras hears Combeferre's ragged breathing beside him, his mind running around in exhausting circles. He wants to help these people but he knows if he does something as reckless as unchaining them, even if he knew how, they might pay for it with their lives. It was no rare occurrence for a slave running away to end up on the other end of a bullet. Some of them look in condition to run, but some don't, and where would he take them besides? He looks over at Combeferre again, seeing the tears filling his eyes and spilling over, his entire body shaking, his breathing uneven. His mind rights itself and he wraps an arm around Combeferre’s waist. 

"We have to go," he says, directing his words to Courfeyrac because Combeferre scarcely appears to hear him. "We have to go now."

Courfeyrac swallows, eyes wide, and leads the way, Enjolras and Combeferre walking side by side up the stairs with Enjolras' arm secure around Combeferre's waist. Courfeyrac looks back once more, his own breathing shallow. They've all seen slaves in houses or at auctions or in the fields, but nothing had prepared any of them for the conditions awaiting them here. Combeferre had spoken of what he'd heard before of the treatment of slaves on ships, but the visual reality of it was something else entirely. 

To the people buying and selling these men and women, they are nothing more than disposable cargo. 

They reach the deck and Combeferre moves from Enjolras' grasp, going over to lean on the rail and gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock as if he doesn't quite see the world in front of him. The sun is rising fully now, piercing the darkness with light, but for once, Enjolras scarcely notices. He doesn’t touch Combeferre at first, suspecting he needs his space. Courfeyrac clasps his hand, fingers clenching at Enjolras’ as if he’s using them as an anchor. After a moment Combeferre turns around running shaking fingers through his hair, still looking as if his mind cannot finish a thought, which can only be terrifying for someone who so depends upon his quick and critical thinking.

“I should have…” he tries. “I can’t…how _could_ he…”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras both reach out, putting gentle hands on Combeferre’s forearms so as not to startle him.

“We should…” Enjolras begins, his eyes flitting up back toward town, a figure coming over the hill in a long dark coat, his EITC uniform peeking from underneath.

“Javert,” Enjolras says, feeling panic fluttering in his chest. “We have to go,” he says. “We have to go now.”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras seize Combeferre’s hands and all three of them break into a frantic pace, running down the dock and making toward the hill and their secret grove of trees, but Enjolras knows Javert sees them. If they could just get out of sight and dash somewhere and lose him…

Almost in the same moment Enjolras hears Javert’s footsteps directly behind them, feeling a hand grab the collar of his jacket and yanking him backward, pulling his feet directly off the ground for a moment. It takes Combeferre and Courfeyrac a second to notice, but they both swing around, Courfeyrac still holding tight to Combeferre’s hand as if afraid that he’ll be swept off and sent to join the slaves on the ship.

“Go!” Enjolras shouts, knowing he cannot escape Javert’s grip.

“Boys,” Javert growls, not moving for fear he’ll lose his grip on Enjolras.

Both Combeferre and Courfeyrac hesitate, looking from Enjolras to Javert, but Enjolras directs his look to Courfeyrac, meeting his eyes and moving them pointedly to Combeferre, who still shakes like mad.

“Go,” Enjolras repeats, sharing a look with Courfeyrac that says _get Combeferre out of here, I’ll be all right._

Courfeyrac bites his lip and it’s clear he doesn’t want to leave Enjolras, but he nods, squeezing Combeferre’s hand and picking up their pace again. Despite his shock, Combeferre looks back, worried, and Enjolras meets his eyes, communicating silently as they have since they were eight.

_Go. I’ll see you soon._

Soon they’re disappeared behind the palm trees, and Enjolras feels some of the initial panic ebb, though the sense of danger does not vanish.   

“Let go of me,” Enjolras says, pulling against Javert’s hold.

“Walk,” Javert commands, and there’s something in his voice, something hard as stone that Enjolras has never heard the full power of before.

He has little choice but to obey, and Javert keeps firm hold of his collar, walking him in the direction of home.

“How could you?” Enjolras spits, the full impact of his fury hitting him like a ton of bricks in the chest. “How could you treat those people that way? How could my father do this to Frantz?”

“You had no business poking around down there boy,” Javert responds, cold as ever and revoking the use of his name. “I suspect you will not see the outside of your house for some time. And what did you think, sending Frantz and Auden away? Frantz will have to come home, and Auden will have to go to his.”

“You know what my grandfather will do to me if my father tells him where we were,” Enjolras says, unable to stop the stream of words spilling out of his mouth, unable to wipe Combeferre’s horrified expression from his mind. “Does it even bother you?”

Finally Javert looks him dead in the eyes, and there’s no trace of softness there, no mercy. Nothing.

“You will deserve whatever punishment you receive. That is what happens when you flout authority.”

Unbidden, Enjolras feels tears fill his eyes, obscuring his vision and finally breaking free, all the calm and all the clear thinking he’d turned to so he could get Combeferre out of there vanishing from sight. He swipes at them with his sleeve but they keep pooling in his eyes, so he swipes again. After a few minutes they reach the house and Javert tightens his grip, hauling Enjolras inside and toward the front parlor. His father stands at the window, hands behind his back and looking even taller than usual, half in the shadows and half in the light. But when he turns, the frown on his face and the look in his eyes cause Enjolras to truly fear his father for the first time in his life. Javert lets go of his collar and the movement shoves him forward.

“Thank you Javert,” Michel says.

“Sir,” Javert responds, nodding.

Enjolras wipes at his eyes once more before looking up at his father, knowing the rims are already red and hating that his father is seeing him this way. Sometimes he wishes he could turn his expression to marble. But another part of him doesn’t care; he wants his father to know how upset he is, and more importantly how upset Combeferre is.

“How did you know where we were?” Enjolras asks.

“I believe I will be the one asking the questions, Rene,” Michel answers, his tone like a smack to Enjolras’ cheek.

“How did you _know_?”

“You three are not as clever as you think,” Michel says, giving in. “I noticed Auden’s eyes on me last night when his father asked about the slave trade, and you were jumpy when I came upstairs to bring Frantz the slice of cake. When the two of you were missing from your beds this morning I put the pieces together and sent Javert after you.”

“Couldn’t deign to come yourself?”

“Hush,” his father commands.

“How could you do this?” Enjolras asks, ignoring him, feeling more tears prick his eyes. “How could you _do_ this?”

But his fire is only met with ice.

“I have not…” Michel tries, but Enjolras cuts him off in an instant.

“Those people were chained worse than animals!” Enjolras shouts, his voice ringing through the room. “How on earth could you be easy with that? They are human _beings_!” He hears Combeferre’s ragged breathing, sees his shaking hands, hears his voice cracking in half. “And even if you don’t care about them, don’t you care about Frantz? Do you even…” he stops, out of breath.

“Of course I care about Frantz,” Michel says. “I will speak to him. I would have been speaking to him now if the three of you hadn’t run off as if you thought you were in some kind of mortal danger.”

“No,” Enjolras says, trying to find his clear head again, but failing and throwing his better judgement to the wind. “No you won’t, I won’t let you...I won’t…”

Enjolras trails off again, putting his hands out and shoving against his father’s chest. Once. Twice. And yet it’s not his father’s hands he feels stopping him, but Javert’s pulling him back by taking a fistful of his jacket and taking him backward. He’s met with such a glare as he’s never seen before on his father’s face, as if he can barely control his anger.

“You had no business being on the ship without my permission,” Michel says, echoing Javert’s earlier words. “You are not required to know every detail of what my job entails.”

“You didn’t want me to know,” Enjolras argues. “You didn’t want Frantz to know, which means this isn’t the first time. This isn’t why you wanted this job. You wanted the freedom of sailing and yet you deny other people theirs?”

Michel sighs, but there’s the smallest crack in his demeanor, and he nods at Javert to let go of Enjolras’ jacket.

“I am never easy with transporting slaves,” he says, and for some reason these words only make Enjolras angrier because he knows there’s an excuse coming next. “But it is my _job_ , Rene. I must do as ordered by my superiors. The economy is rapidly being built on slave labor so I must transport them as required.”

“Then stop doing the job!” Enjolras responds, raising his voice again. “Do a different job! You don’t even need this, our family has more wealth than we could ever even use in a lifetime.”

There’s a marked silence, and then Michel steps forward, leaning down so he’s almost nose to nose with his son, and Enjolras can’t pull his eyes away.

“You are not the one giving orders here,” he whispers. “I am.”

“What if the circumstance was different?” Enjolras says, lowering his voice to match his father’s. “And Frantz was on that ship and you didn’t know him? You would just ship him off like you do the others because it’s your job. What if Frantz’s mother was among them? Would you even notice Chantal or just count her among the rest of your cargo?”

“Enough!” Michel says, turning away, and Enjolras swears he sees his father’s eyes glistening, but it doesn’t change what he’s done. It doesn’t change what he’ll continue to do. “Javert, please take my son upstairs and put him in his room, then go and speak to Captain Rogers, he’s on standby, and our crew will have to transfer this journey over to his crew. He won’t be able to leave for a day or two, but I will owe him a favor in the future. I am going out to look for Frantz and Auden. Rene, do not leave your room, do you understand me?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer and Michel doesn’t press, storming out across the entrance hall and out the door. It closes with a thud behind him, and Javert gestures Enjolras up the stairs.

“Where is your secret hideaway you think no one knows about?” Javert asks as they reach Enjolras’ room.

Enjolras merely glares at him, and Javert huffs, slamming the door closed. Enjolras goes over to the window seat he and Combeferre often read on, sitting down and resting his head in his hands, unable to wipe away the memory the slaves chained together, unable to wipe away Combeferre’s shock and pain, unable to rid his nose of the stench of the cargo hold.

_People. In a cargo hold._

He’s only in his room for a short while when he hears a knock on the door. Softer than his father’s or Javert’s, and when angry his grandfather doesn’t stand on ceremony, so it can only be his mother. She opens the door, stepping inside and closing it firmly behind her and latching the lock.

“I heard what happened,” she says, coming over and sitting next to him, concern etched into her features.

Enjolras looks up at her, feeling the emotion well in his chest again, and words come pouring out of his mouth, utterly out of his control.

“I couldn’t save them,” he says, hearing the tears grating into his voice, though no more fall. “I couldn’t…”

His mother reaches out, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close, his head resting on her shoulder.

“You couldn’t have darling,” she says, resting a hand on the back of his neck. “I know you wanted to. But you couldn’t have.”

“Frantz…”

“Frantz and Auden are outside in my garden,” she says, pulling back and offering him a watery smile. “I was out early on a walk this morning and came back that way to look at my flowers. They told me what happened, and said you’d been brought home to your father by Javert. They were worried about you, so I suspect we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Enjolras nods, following her out quietly through the hallways in case anyone comes in the door and he’s not supposed to leave his room. They reach the side door out to the garden and his mother squeezes his hand.

“I’ll keep watch here by the door, but don’t be too long,” she says. “Then you and Frantz will have to come inside and send Auden home. I know Frantz doesn’t want to, but I won’t allow your father to separate you into your bedrooms. Don’t worry.”

Enjolras nods, stepping out into the garden, which is shielded completely from the front path to the house. Almost as soon as he steps out he feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s arms around him, and all three of them pull tightly together.

“Are you all right?” Combeferre asks, finding his voice again.

“Am _I_ all right?” Enjolras asks, incredulous. “I’m the one who should be asking if _you’re_ all right.”

Enjolras feels Courfeyrac shake his head against their shoulders, exasperated.

“What happened?” Combeferre asks as they pull away, but none of them let go.

“It doesn’t really matter,”  Enjolras  says, shaking his head. “There were excuses and explanations and shouting. My father went out looking for you and Auden."

_We should run_ , Enjolras wants to say. _As soon as my father and Javert leave on another journey, we should go_. But he holds off, saving those thoughts for later when they can all think clearly and talk it through. When they can plan.

 “Your father transferred over the journey to another crew?” Combeferre asks, abrupt, and Enjolras suspects he knows where this is going, recognizing the fierce expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “But he said they won’t be able to leave for another day or two.”

“I want to help those slaves,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras thinks he’s never heard him sound more determined.

“Free them?” Courfeyrac asks.

“No,” Combeferre says. “That won’t help them because we don’t have anywhere to send them. It would endanger them. But if we could simply give them decent food or clean water or…” he stumbles over his words again, the events of earlier overtaking him.

Enjolras squeezes his arm in reassurance, and Courfeyrac does the same.

“We will,” Enjolras says, a sense of foreboding coming alive in his chest like a raging beast telling him he shouldn’t do this, that there will inevitably be trouble, but defying it anyway. “We will do it together. Tonight.”  


	5. Book I (Beginnings): Section 1, Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters come to a head in the Enjolras household, and faced with new threats and dangers, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac make their escape.

**Book I (Beginnings): Part 1, Section 5**

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1704.**

_They shouldn’t be doing this_ , Combeferre thinks as he carefully climbs down from the window using a makeshift rope made out of bedsheets. _But then on the other hand, they absolutely should be doing this._ It was his idea, and he won’t back down, especially not with the knowledge that his friends will walk by his side throughout _._ He lands with a soft thump on the grass, hearing Courfeyrac’s nervous breathing in his ear just behind him. They watch in silence as Enjolras climbs down with a grace that seems unfair, given the height and the rope made of old bedsheets. He too, lands after a few moments, pulling the sheet down with him. None of them think they’ll be able to climb back up it, so they left one of the lower floor windows open, hoping no one notices so they can return back inside that way.

“All right,” Enjolras says, whispering as if he fears his father will hear from inside. “Auden, you have what we need?”

“All accounted for,” Courfeyrac says, lifting a knapsack full of what Combeferre knows is a jug of fresh water and some fruit. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could do while sneaking out in the middle of the night.

“Ready, Frantz?” Enjolras asks, and the aura about him is what makes Combeferre think he’d be an excellent ship captain; the surety in a messy situation, the ability to lead, the gaze in his eyes as if he’s seen through years he hasn’t lived. He’d told his friend as much before, but as Enjolras once said in reply, he couldn’t very well captain without a navigator, or he wouldn’t know where he was going, and the memory makes Combeferre smile, despite where they’re headed

“Ready,” Combeferre replies. _Ready as I’ll ever be._

They walk slowly toward the docks, looking behind them frequently. Combeferre isn’t under any impression that they won’t get caught, but he cannot stop himself from doing this. His logical brain says this is trouble, but his heart says this is right. He cannot scrub his mind clean of the image of those men and women chained together in that hot, putrid cargo hold, those people who look like him, those people who could _be_ him, his mother, his mother’s friend Fantine, and so many other people who he knows and who he doesn’t. He thinks of his mother and her smile and he aches for her, desperate to know what happened to her even if she’s dead, even if she’s been kidnapped by slave runners, because the absence of answers leaves a hole in his heart. But just like his father before him, if he finds out she’s working on a plantation somewhere he will find her, and he will get her out. He knows too, that Enjolras and Courfeyrac will be right by his side. He hears his father’s genuine, full laugh in his head, feels the ghost of his hand ruffling his hair, and something about it drives him onward. They approach the docks slowly, the moonlight guiding their steps.

“Navy soldiers,” Enjolras breathes.

“Because of us sneaking onto the ship this morning?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I’m not sure,” Enjolras answers. “I know they keep watch over the dock at night, though not usually over East India ships unless asked. My father has a lot of contacts and friends in the navy so it’s not impossible, but…let us wait a moment. They might be on a patrol and go down the docks a bit.”

“I would not put it past your father to station the Navy at the ship,” Combeferre says, feeling the anger pulsing in his veins, mixed with the remaining love he still holds for Michel Enjolras. It confuses him to the core that he could feel both at once, though resentment and hurt are both more in the forefront than anything else. “To watch the _cargo_ before Captain Rogers sails out tomorrow.”

“No,” Enjolras says, looking over, a sad anger cutting into tone. “I wouldn’t either.”

They wait ten minutes or so, watching another soldier say something inaudible to the one standing guard and they both walk with swift steps down the shore and toward another ship just out of sight.

“Now?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras nods, and they walk as quickly and quietly as possible toward the ship, not hesitating at the walkway as they did before. There’s no time for that and they know what they’ll find besides. Combeferre hesitates just before the door to the cargo hold, feeling a hot, sick swoop of anxiety in his stomach. He doesn’t want to see this again, he doesn’t want to see the lines of exhaustion and hunger and desperation written into the lines of faces that bear his own reflection. But his desire to help them is an ache in his heart, and the feeling of Enjolras and Courfeyrac squeezing his fingers gives him the courage he needs. He pushes the door open again and hears Courfeyrac strike a match, lighting a candle so that a solitary pool of light hits the ceiling, allowing them to see in the darkened room. One of the slaves looks up at them, curious, but she directs her words to him, Combeferre notices.

“You were here earlier,” she says, voice hoarse as though she’s been coughing.

“Yes,” Combeferre says, hearing the tears in his voice but swallowing back.

“Why are you here again? You’re nothing but boys.”

Courfeyrac stands back a bit, careful with the candle on this wooden ship, but both he and Enjolras follow Combeferre’s lead, and he steps forward.

“I don’t really know how to explain the situation,” he says. “But my friends and I, we’ve come to give you some water, and some food. It was…it was the best we could manage, but…”

“These are your friends?” the woman asks, eyes flitting between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, distrustful for reasons Combeferre decidedly understands.

“Yes,” he answers again. “They wanted to help too. I trust them with everything I am.”

At this the woman smiles. It’s tired, it’s sadder than Combeferre can take, but there’s a sudden trust within it, and she reaches out her hand, unable to go far because of the chains. He reaches back and she briefly enfolds his hand in hers. The touch reminds him of his mother, and this woman’s skin is the same as well, darker than his own but complementary. Without warning he remembers his mother’s voice singing an old Haitian lullaby in his ear when he was a child and couldn’t sleep because of the storms. His grandparents had been slaves, two that had been lucky enough to stay together and that were released upon a sudden change of heart on their master’s deathbed just before his mother was born, so she’d grown up on Haiti her entire life as her parents tried to make their way in the Caribbean. He hears the words in his ear, her warm tones laced through with a light French accent comforting him. And no matter where she is now, somehow that gives him strength to face one of the hardest things he’s ever confronted.

“Amaka,” she answers. “And you?”

“Frantz,” he says. “And these are my friends René and Auden.”

“Thank you,” she says in response. “To all of you.”

Combeferre takes the water jug from Courfeyrac and hands it to Amaka, who takes a large gulp, so it’s obvious they aren’t giving them enough water. The jug gets passed around to all of the slaves in turn, the ones who are awake shaking the shoulders of the ones who aren’t so they don’t miss the opportunity. The smell down here still seeps into Combeferre’s pores and it breaks him that he cannot save these people, it breaks him that he cannot set them free, and he tells himself silently that one day he will find a way to overturn ships like these and give the slaves aboard a safe place to go. He knows just how easily he could have been one of them.

Suddenly, all of Enjolras’ words about pirates, all of the stories they’ve whispered to each other about the pirate Fauchelevent when Combeferre heard admiration lining Enjolras’ voice come rushing back. Some pirates are out for the glory and the riches and sometimes the blood. But some, perhaps more, are out to search for the progress and safety of those society has left behind. There have been whispers of the growing influence of said pirates on Nassau. For all the scandalous newspaper stories written about pirates, he, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac have heard just as many positive ones from sailors at the docks, stories of equal and democratic treatment aboard ships, much different from anything they’d see on East India or Navy vessels. Pirates took care of their own, opening their ships to people “polite” society shunned. _They are undertaking a true revolution_ , he hears Enjolras say in his head. _They are fighting back._

They are about to take out the fruit they’ve brought when the door at the top of the stairs opens and slams back against the wood. Courfeyrac blows out the candle so he doesn’t accidentally drop it, but the moonlight from outside illuminates them nevertheless, and they see Captain Enjolras at the top of the stairs, fury etched into his every feature, his breathing erratic as if he’d run here, his clothes a disheveled mess. He’d clearly seen the open window, found them missing, and put the pieces together.

“René, Frantz, Auden, come up here this _instant_ ,” Captain Enjolras says, and it unnerves Combeferre how enraged he can sound without raising his voice.

Combefere cannot see his friends’ faces very well, but all three of them know there’s no choice, particularly if they don’t want the people down here to suffer as a consequence. Combeferre looks back once more at Amaka, who sends him a small, melancholy smile back, but he doesn’t miss the undercurrent of anger in her eyes, not directed at him, but at the sound of Captain Enjolras’ voice. Combeferre goes up first, Enjolras in the middle and Courfeyrac behind. Captain Enjolras steps back to allow them onto the deck, but his expression is no more forgiving up here. He looks them up and down, a hard glint in his blue eyes as he surveys the items in their hands.

“René, I specifically told you _never_ to come aboard this ship without my permission,” Michel says. “I told you this very morning not to disobey me and I told you to stay in your room. Now not only are you interfering with my work you are interfering with another captain’s work. And you’ve led Frantz and Auden here with your recklessness.”

“It was my idea,” Combeferre says before anyone else can speak. “I was the one who wanted to come down here and give proper food and water to those slaves. _Someone_ should.” He steps forward in challenge, feeling anxiety buzzing in the pit of his stomach, but he clenches his fists, trying to keep it at bay. Because no matter what Captain Enjolras has done for him, no matter the claims of love, _this_ is not right. And it hasn’t been right for a very long time. He remembers how he felt this morning, remembers losing his lunch once they reached the palm tree grove, Courfeyrac’s hand resting on his back. He remembers Enjolras’ face lined with pain each time his grandfather struck him or verbally assaulted him and Michel did not step in properly. He remembers the feelings of shame and confusion when Captain Enjolras would encourage him and limit him in the same moment.

“Frantz, I understand you are trying to defend….”

“No sir,” Combeferre presses. “I’m not saying they did not want to come with me, and I know they’d admit the same. But I was the one who thought of it.”

“Frantz,” Michel says, and Combeferre hears the condescension melting in drops off his voice. “I’m sure you don’t…”

“Understand when I have an independent thought formed of my own accord?” Combeferre asks, clenching his fists. “Yes I do. You continue encouraging my study of navigation and astronomy, you leave me old pamphlets of my father’s and buy me new ones yet you think I cannot come up with an idea on my own? That I can only follow in the path of a white person?”

Silence rings in Combeferre’s ears, and he cannot make out Captain Enjolras’ expression. It softens slightly but his posture still reads as angry, straight-backed and resolute.

“I never said that,” he finally says.

“Not in those words,” Enjolras says, speaking up, And Combeferre doesn’t like the way his voice shakes as if he’s holding onto the last shred of hope he possesses, because Enjolras’ voice _always_ resonates with hope, despite all that’s happened to them. “But you said it anyway.”

“We were just giving those men and women water and food,” Coufeyrac adds, stepping up evenly with the other two. “They look as if they’ve barely had enough to survive.”

“Their needs are met,” Michel says. “That certainly doesn’t require additional help from a trio of 14-year-old children.”

“Their needs are met while they’re chained in a cargo hold?” Enjolras retorts, fire flashing in his eyes. He shakes out the trembling in his voice and Combeferre hears it grow solid.

“Those people want what any of us want,” Combeferre says, desperate to make Captain Enjolras understand, desperate to make this man who was his father’s dearest friend _see_ , to turn him back into the man who, were his father alive, might have been on their side. Power, Combeferre has learned, is seductive, and fear of breaking expectation only leaves Captain Enjolras chained to his fate. “To be _free_.”

Out of the corner of his eye Combeferre sees the two Navy soldiers from earlier walk back up toward the ship.

“Everything all right, Captain Enjolras?” one asks, eyeing the four of them.

“I asked your superior officer to station a man here tonight,” Michel answers, and Enjolras’ eyes meet Combeferre’s own. They’d been right about that.

“There was a situation down at the other end of the docks,” the officer answers. “A fight between a few drunken men, so we had to leave our post. Our apologies sir.”

“It’s all right lads,” Michel says to the two young soldiers, though he still sounds disgruntled. “As you were. I’m taking these boys home.”

“Goodnight captain,” the soldiers say, though when Combeferre looks back he sees them whispering to each other, curious.

“Now you’ve caused a scene,” Michel whispers once they’re an earshot away, harsh. His eyes fall on Enjolras. “I did not want to tell your grandfather about this. I had no intention of doing so. But now he will certainly find out from someone else.”

Enjolras twitches, but says nothing, clenching and unclenching his right fist and breathing in as if he’s regulating his air intake. After a few minutes’ walk they reach Courfeyrac’s home, a large house not far from the docks. They’ve been here a few times but it’s always obvious that Courfeyrac doesn’t feel comfortable, so they haven’t spent a great deal of time in this house. Late as it is, past midnight, Combeferre thinks, there’s candlelight visible through one of the downstairs windows. Before Captain Enjolras can even knock on the front door it opens, revealing Courfeyrac’s father, who looks confused.

“Michel,” he says, raising his eyebrows when he sees his son by Captain Enjolras’ elbow, so it’s clear he didn’t realize he wasn’t in his bed.

“Aldridge,” Captain Enjolras replies, and Combeferre hears the similar mixing of accents in their tones. Captain Enjolras is full-blooded French, and Courfeyrac’s father had an English mother and a French father much like Enjolras, but there are touches of both countries in each of their accents. “I will leave Auden to explain the details, but I’m afraid I found the boys on one of the East India ships without permission and I’m here to deliver Auden back to you. I’d stay to explain but I’m afraid I need to take René and Frantz home. But if you need to speak with me I will be in my office in the morning.”

“Yes,” Aldridge says, eyeing Combeferre in a way that makes him uncomfortable, as though the man suspects what they were doing on the ship. “I understand. Thank you for bringing Auden home.”

“You’re welcome,” Michel says, and Aldridge beckons Courfeyrac forward, though he looks more irritated than angry, as if his son is an annoyance. Combeferre hates seeing Courfeyrac’s usually gleeful, happy expression crumble, and if the look in Enjolras’ eyes is any indication, so does he. “Goodnight.”

Courfeyrac looks back at them one last time before they hear Aldridge whisper “what were you doing down there, Auden? What were you thinking, tampering with East India cargo?” but then the door closes, and they are left alone with Michel. He doesn’t seize either of them as Enjolras told them Javert did this morning, but they have no option but to follow him, and nowhere to run.

“The two of you have dabbled in behavior I never expected of either of you,” Michel says after a few minutes of silent walking. “Disobeying me directly, speaking disrespectfully, neglecting your studies with your tutors, gambling. I heard word of _that_ particular activity today. You will not spend time with such people any longer, do you hear me? Auden seems a bad influence on you as well, which is unfortunate given my growing working relationship with his father, so there is little I can do about it.”

“Don’t bring Auden into this,” Enjolras snaps, crossing his arms over his chest as they walk up the drive. “Don’t blame him for things that are your fault.”

Combeferre watches Michel spin on his heel, and though there’s no sign of a raised hand Enjolras still flinches as though preparing for a hit out of reflex, and it’s the first time Combeferre has seen that happen between the two of them.

“I am not going to hit you, René,” Michel says, a shred of gentleness entering his voice. “I never have.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, refusing to look at his father, images of the governor forming smoky shapes in his eyes. There’s a pause where Michel looks at both of them as if lost, then ushers them inside, speaking once more when the door is closed.

“Don’t the two of you realize that I’m simply trying to give you the best possible lives?” Michel says, his voice strained. “Don’t you see that’s what I’m trying to do? But there are rules and expectations. There are consequences for breaking rules and failing to live up to expectations. The two of you are doing both.”

 _How could you do this to me_ , Combeferre wants to shout, but he can’t quite force the words out. _How could you do this to my father’s memory?_

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak but Michel holds up a hand, silencing him.

“If something doesn’t change,” Michel says, slow and not looking either of them in eyes. “I’m going to have to separate you.”

“ _Separate_ us?” Enjolras asks, eyes widening. “What…you can’t send Frantz away!”

“I wouldn’t,” Michel says, and Combeferre feels his heart clench. “I would be sending you to boarding school in Europe. For a year, perhaps two depending on how you behaved. You’d return here at sixteen. Frantz would remain here.”

“You can’t,” Enjolras says, eyes growing moist, shocked. “You _can’t_. You swore you would never do that. Despite everything I never thought you would do that.”

“I never predicted you would behave this badly,” Michel says. Combeferre sees the apology in his eyes, but he doesn’t retract his words.

“You promised my father,” Combeferre says, feeling the tears bubble up and break forth into his voice. “You promised him, Captain Enjolras. You…promised me…you…” His words jumble up in his throat and he’s no longer able to force them out.

“Promises cannot always remain unbroken my lad,” Michel says, his own voice hoarse at the mention of Arthur. He reaches out in an attempt to touch Combeferre’s shoulder, but Combeferre steps back, not allowing it.

“You took me in,” Combeferre says, not giving up. “You made a promise to my father against what society would have dictated. But now you’re transporting people who look like me _and_ you’re threatening to separate me from René? After everything you’ve already let happen?” He swallows, steeling himself. “How could you _do_ this to us? How could you do this to those people?”

“You do not understand,” Michel says, swiping his hand through the air, an odd fear crackling around him as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as them. But to Combeferre it sounds like him being unwilling to challenge anything, not his father in law, not society, no matter how much he might love them. “I am looking out for your best interests. Things are _not_ simple and my father in law…”

“Stand up to him,” Enjolras interrupts, but he doesn’t raise his voice, the intensity radiating off him in waves. “That is how you will look out for our best interests. That is how you will protect us like you say you want to. And stop transporting slaves.”

“A list of demands,” Michel says, an ironic jolt of laughter bursting out of him. “Son, you do not tell me what to do. I am your father and Frantz’s guardian. I have the final say, period.”

“You just don’t want to risk your job, your standing,” Enjolras says. “What does it matter how much damage that does?”

“Those are no small matters, René,” Michel answers. “You cannot toss them off as if they are nothing. I cannot simply say no to parts of job and my obligations, no matter my personal feelings or attachments.”

Combeferre watches father and son stare at each other for a moment, rage and pain simmering between them.

“You’re being a coward,” Enjolras finally says, though Combeferre notes that he says “being” and not “are.”

“Bed,” Michel says, abrupt. “Both of you. Do not, under any circumstance leave this house. We will talk more in the morning.” He pauses, looking back at his son. “And René, if you _ever_ say something of that sort to me again, I promise you will not see the outside of this house for a month and you’ll be packing your bags for the continent before you can even start to argue.”

He follows them upstairs and Combeferre almost thinks he sees Michel wither under Enjolras’ glare. They go into their separate rooms, and Combeferre listens for the fade of Michel’s footsteps and the sound of him shutting his door. Mere seconds later he hears the creak of Enjolras’ door next to his own, though his friend makes almost no noise as he takes the two or three steps to Combeferre’s room, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible. He climbs up on the bed next to Combeferre, sitting against the headboard and wrapping his arms around his knees.

“We have to make a plan,” Enjolras says, turning to look at him, grave. “A plan to run away.”

Combeferre sits up straighter against the headboard, leaning his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras’ height advantage allows him to rest his head against Combeferre’s.  They’ve sat this way since they were younger in response to stressful situations, and adolescent gangly legs and awkward arms aside, nothing much has changed. They’re silent for a few minutes, safe in this one moment.

“Yes,” Combeferre finally says. “I agree. It’s not my inheritance or yours, but we have saved some money. How do we get word to Auden if we’re stuck in here?”

A fond half-smile slides onto Enjolras’ face, and despite the circumstances Combeferre feels one echoed on his own lips.

“I suspect he will figure out a way to come to us,” Enjolras says. “His father might be angry, but he’s not attentive enough to keep Auden in the house. We should probably listen for the sound of rocks at our window.”

Combeferre chuckles. “We could toss notes down to him. Your father and Javert leave in a few weeks. Perhaps we could try for that. We’ll have to be on our best behavior until then so your father doesn’t try to send you away before we can go.”

Enjolras nods, looping his arm through Combeferre’s.

“I won’t allow him to separate us,” he whispers, and Combeferre feels the familiar warmth of trust flood him. He doesn’t trust easily, but with Enjolras it’s been natural almost since the day they met, built upon by experience. “I think…I think we can survive out there. We know a great deal, so we can find work on ships. I don’t believe it will be easy, but I think we can. Do you?”

Combeferre picks up his head, looking at Enjolras, who looks back, faith aflame in his eyes. Nerves prick at his stomach and tie it in knots but something in his spirit that’s attached itself to Enjolras and Courfeyrac and to the sea beyond, tells him they can do this.

“I think we have to,” he says. “Because we cannot stay here.”

* * *

Enjolras and Combeferre are sitting on Enjolras’ bed when they hear the small rock go “tink” against the window.

 _There’s Auden_ , Enjolras thinks, sharing Combeferre’s smile. His father left early this morning to tend to business at the docks, but not before informing them once more that they were not to leave the house unless accompanied, and that he’d sent word to their tutors that their lessons for the day were canceled. Determined to put on the façade of expected behavior they’d nodded and obeyed, which was likely the only reason they were allowed to sit together. Enjolras usually leaves the window open to let the breeze in, so he goes over, pushing it open further and putting his head out, seeing Courfeyrac standing below. Combeferre joins him, and they stand side by side, barely fitting but managing.

“Are you two all right?” Couferyrac asks in a loud whisper. “Is this…will I get you in more trouble?”

“The only one home is my mother,” Enjolras answers, keeping his voice low even still, in case his father, Javert, or his grandfather approaches the drive. “We’re all right but a lot has happened. We’re stuck here unless accompanied. Are you all right?”

Courfeyrac nods. “My father reprimanded me for about twenty minutes and I’ll have to be careful around the docks for a week or so, but other than that it was fine. He’s too preoccupied to keep me house bound. Can you tell me what happened with the captain?”

“Too much of a risk to say aloud,” Combeferre says, folding up the letter they wrote to Courfeyrac this morning explaining the events of last night and their plans to run away, including their need for passage out. If anyone could find a ship to carry the three of them away, it was Courfeyrac. Combeferre drops the letter down and Courfeyrac catches it. “Read that,” Combeferre instructs, and the pair of them wait as Courfeyrac opens the letter, his eyes roving back and forth over the lines, eyebrows knitted together in concentration. He looks up, a gleam of nervous excitement in his eyes.

“All noted,” he says. “The plan is in motion then. I’ll find a way for us, never you fear.” He turns, hearing steps walking up the drive. “I’d better go. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” He hesitates for a moment, worry written into his countenance. “Just be careful, all right?”

Enjolras hears the front door open so he and Combeferre only smile in return, turning from the window but leaving it open for fear of making a sound.

“Father,” Enjolras hears his mother say, voice slightly higher than normal. He and Combeferre move quietly from his room and toward the top of the stairs, listening. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I heard word of what occurred on Michel’s ship yesterday morning and evening and that he’d transferred his cargo to another captain,” his grandfather says. “Though he did not see fit to tell me himself about the transfer _or_ René’s behavior. One of my naval contacts alerted me. Usually he would let me know of such an occurrence”

“I’m sure he’s simply busy,” Astra says in an attempt to placate him. The fact that his father kept this from his grandfather doesn’t reduce Enjolras’ anger or upset at all of the things that have happened in the past day and before, but it does speak to the conflict he senses within him. He wishes his father would choose a side, he wishes he would choose _their_ side.

“Where is René?” the governor asks, not standing on ceremony.

“Father,” Astra says, pleading in her tone. “Let’s not.”

“I have a right to speak to my own grandson, Astra,” he says. “I have a right to reprimand him for what he’s done. I will not allow him to smear our family name with such reckless behavior. I will not let his youthful indiscretions turn into an adulthood full of mistakes and ruin.”

“Certainly not,” Astra says, but Enjolras hears the sarcasm in his mother’s voice, and once again he wonders what secrets exist between his mother and grandfather.

“Do not disrespect me, Astra,” the governor says, not missing her tone. “A fully grown woman you may be, but I am your father.”

“Then respect me as a parent and do not strike my child,” she replies, and though she is usually bold, Enjolras hasn’t heard her sound quite so much so with his grandfather, likely for fear the retaliation would be not against her, but him. “How would you feel if someone laid hands on me?”

“Do not dictate to me,” he says. “I would not allow someone to lay hands on you, but you are a woman. It is different. René must learn his place, he must behave as a man worthy of the rank he will hold, and he must carry on our line. Now where is he?”

His mother doesn’t answer, holding her ground. She knows her father won’t strike her. But Enjolras knows that if he doesn’t come downstairs his grandfather will simply come up, and he chooses to face the inevitable. He starts toward the stairs, hearing Combeferre behind him and spinning around.

“No,” he says, reading the stubbornness in Combeferre’s gaze. “My grandfather is always a danger to you, but that is especially true now. I’m not telling you what to do, but I wish you wouldn’t.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with this,” Combeferre says. “We did all of these things together, and we’re in this together.”

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” Enjolras says, voice splitting under the pressure of imagining Combeferre bloodied and beaten by his grandfather’s hand. “He is rough with me but if he had the opportunity he would be rougher with you.”

“I don’t care,” Combeferre insists. “If we’re bruised and bloodied we’ll be so together.”

Enjolras squeezes his hand in gratitude, feeling hot, prickling anxiety form a ball in his stomach, but he squares his shoulders, determined. Some of the fear ebbs away at the notion that given any luck, they’ll be far away from here soon enough. They walk down the stairs, met with Astra’s worried gaze.

“You were looking for me?” Enjolras asks, taking his mother’s hand when she reaches out, clasping it briefly.

His grandfather looks back at him, eyes narrowed beneath his gold spectacles, face flushing red.

"Don’t you take that tone with me after what you’ve done,” his grandfather says. “I have had enough of this, René."

“Perhaps I’ve had enough,” Enjolras retorts, feeling the danger in the air. But the mere thought of running away from here causes him to throw his caution to the winds. Before, it was about getting out from under his grandfather as quickly as possible, but now with discovering the slaves, with the threat of separating him from Combeferre, with the years of physical and emotional pain, now it feels as if he has nothing to lose, and he feels all of his rage bubble to the surface.

“You dare speak to me this way?” his grandfather says, stepping closer. “You interfered in a business venture, tampering with cargo, disobeying your father in such a blatant, direct way. You have allowed this wretched boy,” the governor continues, pointing a finger at Combeferre, contempt on his lips, and Combeferre glares back. “To corrupt you nearly beyond repair and I tell you I will forgive it no longer.”

“Those men and women are human beings, _not_ cargo. And you are a cruel, tyrannical old man," Enjolras says, pushing the words out in front of his grandfather for the first time. He knows he will pay immediately, but he cannot help it. "Frantz is worth 100 of you."

There is a terrible, treacherous pause, and his grandfather's eyes flash with fury.

"What did you say to me, boy?"

"You heard me, sir," Enjolras says, feeling himself shaking but he doesn't back down. He moves from between his mother and Combeferre, stepping closer to his grandfather. "I know you're going to hit me, so you might as well just do it. But no matter what you say, I know I don't deserve it." He stops, breathless, his heart pounding in his chest.

His grandfather advances, eyes dark with wrath.

"Father, _no_ ," Astra says, but no matter how tall she is she's no physical threat to the governor, who though aging is broad, tall, and so Enjolras has been told, a strong physical combatant as a younger man.

Enjolras sees his grandfather's hand flying toward him, but this time it's not open for a slap to his cheek or reaching out to seize his arm. His fingers are closed into a fist, and before he quite realizes it the old man's hand comes into contact with his nose, and when he reaches up there's a trickle of warm, fresh blood flowing out. The pain is like an explosion in his face, the skin throbbing with fire and a shout bursts from his lips without his permission. He scarcely has time to think before his grandfather seizes him by his lapels, but he's too tall now for his feet to lift off the ground, so instead he finds himself pressed up against the wall.

"You will embarass me no longer, boy," his grandfather says. "You will behave. You will fall in line and I will do whatever it takes to make it so, do you hear me? You are fourteen and there are no more excuses I will accept. You are the only heir to this line and you will behave as such or suffer the consequences."

Enjolras doesn't answer and there's a hard slap to his face. His grandfather looks ready to raise his fist again when Enjolras sees a familiar hand shoot out, catching his grandfather's wrist.

"Stop hurting him!" Combeferre shouts.

His grandfather yanks his wrist out of Combeferre's grasp and releases his hold on Enjolras, his eyes falling on Combeferre.

"You do not touch me," the governor says. "Michel has protected you all these years but you are one step away from learning what a real punishment is. You don’t belong here.”

“Yes I do,” Combeferre says, his temper finally giving way and Enjolras does fear the look in his grandfather’s eyes now, because though he might pay in pain, Combeferre could possibly pay in more. “But I won’t watch you hurt René anymore.”

Before Enjolras can even move his grandfather slaps Combeferre hard, leaving a handprint on the side of his face. Enjolras feels his rational mind shut off and he pushes his grandfather and suddenly finds himself on the floor, a tangle of arms as Combeferre tries pulling him up as his grandfather pins him down, swinging once more with his fist and hitting Enjolras’ cheek and there’s a second punch of pain. It sounds far off in the distance, but he hears the door open, his mother’s voice piercing through the air.

“Michel stop this!” she exclaims. “Stop it right now.”

He can’t see it, but he hears footsteps and his father’s voice coming closer.

“Andrew, that is enough,” he says, firm, pulling on the back of his grandfather’s jacket and off of Enjolras. “They are boys.”

His grandfather stands up, clearing his throat and dusting himself off. His mother dashes over to them, helping Enjolras up and standing in front of both Combeferre and himself, her breathing rapid. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees shock flicker in in Javert’s face.

“Let’s go the parlor and speak a moment,” Michel says, and with a huff the governor follows, but despite the shut door they can still hear the murmuring of voices though they cannot make out the words just yet.

“Oh René, your nose,” his mother says, and his winces at her touch, pain radiating throughout.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Combeferre says, looking closer, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s not out of place. Just bruised and bleeding.”

“How’s your cheek?” Enjolras asks, putting his sleeve up against the bleeding.

“Not as bad as your nose or your cheek,” Combeferre says. “Stings, but he struck two blows to your face.”

“He slapped you,” Enjolras argues.

“We can argue about that later,” Combeferre says, fondness in his tone. “We’ve got more to be concerned about with right now.”

Enjolras looks over at the sound of footsteps, seeing Javert approaching and looking awkward. He pulls out a handkerchief, handing it over.

“Better for stopping the bleeding than your sleeve,” he mutters, and Enjolras nods, accepting it.

“You should have stopped my father before this,” Astra says, rounding on Javert, ice in her tone where before there had been warmth for Javert, growing colder over the years as his and Enjolras’s relationship splintered. “Now look. You’ll teach my son to fight but you won’t defend him.”

“I’m sorry Madam,” Javert says, looking surprised, but still respectful. “I was only doing as…”

“Oh, as Michel said, I’m sure,” she seethes. “I’ve had enough of this.”

They’re cut off by the sound of rising voices from the other side of the door.

“I’m sure it won’t happen again, sir,” Michel says, sounding frustrated. “I will be keeping a closer eye on them from now on. They’re young, foolish boys who have not yet learned the way of things and think they’re rebelling. And I’ve told them if it continues René will be going to boarding school. But I…” he hesitates, then plows forward. “I must ask for some discretion.” He’s not specific, but the governor knows what he means. “René is out there bleeding. I’m sure that’s not what you’re after? Him fearing you?”

“Fear is a powerful motivator, Michel,” the governor says. “And you will receive such discretion if you alert me to the goings on as you usually would,” the governor says. “You did not tell me that they’d discovered the slaves, you didn’t tell me they went back again. You must inform me.”

“Yes sir,” Michel says.

“And mark my words,” the governor says, and though he lowers his voice they can still hear him. “If the Combeferre boy makes one more wrong move, if he ever touches me like that again or interferes, I _will_ press charges. The only reason I won’t now is due to my respect for you, but consider this a warning. You are a good man Michel, but he has been your one mistake, just like he was his father’s. Your choice lies with whether or not you will allow that to stain you as it did Arthur.”

Enjolras hears Combeferre’s sharp intake of breath and slips an arm through his, pulling him closer. He feels real, sick fear pulsating in his veins at the threat in his grandfather’s words.

“I made a promise, sir,” Michel says after a moment. “A promise to my dearest friend on his deathbed. I am not one to break such things.”

 _Aren’t you?_ Enjolras says inside his head, though his father certainly doesn’t see it as such, not yet. There’s guilt in his father’s voice, Enjolras notices, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough to make him change his ways, to stop transporting slaves and allowing his grandfather to hold sway. Something tells him no, but there’s also a tinge of hope at the edges of his spirit at hearing his father take this small stand.

“Oh Michel, my lad,” the governor says, and Enjolras doesn’t miss the nearly sinister condescension in his grandfather’s voice that sends chills down his spine. “How can you break a promise to a man who is no longer alive to know the difference?”

Michel isn’t given time to answer before the governor opens the door and storms out, slamming the front door behind him. Michel steps back out and toward Enjolras, aware of the entire group’s eyes on him.

“Let me see your nose,” he says, gentler than Enjolras expects.

“It’s fine,” Enjolras says, suddenly unable to bear the idea of his father touching him when he’s allowed it to get to this point, no matter what he said to his grandfather just now. The image of the slaves chained in the cargo hold flashes through his brain, the smell filling his nose. He sees his father’s anger as he’d stood by the window half shaded in shadow and half in the light, remembers fearing him for the first time. He remembers the threat to tear him apart from Combeferre.

“René, son, please, just let me see,” Michel presses. “It’s still bleeding.”

He reaches out shifting aside the handkerchief and touching the tender spot and for just a split second Enjolras remembers the father he knew when he was younger, resting on his shoulders as they laughed beneath the stars on the deck of a ship. He recalls the sand ship they built, remembers his father’s smile as Lieutenant Combeferre flicked sand in his direction, trying not to chuckle, but failing. But then more memories come tumbling into his brain, the arguments and the distance and the betrayal, and he steps back.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, a plea rather than a demand.

His father steps back as if struck, something hardening in his face.

“Michel,” Astra says, stepping toward him. “Do you see what’s happened? René is bleeding, and this time my father struck Frantz also. What are you going to do about that?”

“I asked him to show discretion,” he says.

“ _Discretion_?” she questions. “Is that what you’re calling it? You are the captain of one of the most powerful ships in this region, you have influence and prestige, you battle pirates, and yet you cannot stand up to your own father in law on this?”

“Did you hear your father Astra?” Michel asks, an uncharacteristic snarl in his voice. “He said he would press charges against Frantz if this line of behavior continues. I for one would prefer that not to happen.” He turns away from his wife and toward Enjolras and Combeferre, his eyes landing on the latter. “Frantz, what were you thinking? Don’t ever touch Governor Travers like that again, I don’t care what’s happening. Now you’ve been hurt and the governor is angry.”

“I was thinking he looked like he was about to break René’s nose,” Combeferre answers, tears shining in his eyes, but he holds them back. “Where are all those words about keeping promises you just spoke to him a few moments ago? He’s one man, Captain Enjolras. Can he have so much power?”

 _That’s the trouble_ , Enjolras thinks. He does have so much power and his father is too afraid to challenge it thoroughly. He worries for them, but he’d rather them change their behavior than confront the governor about changing his own.

“This isn’t about any of that,” Michel says, his skin paler than normal, his nostrils flared against rapid breaths. For the first time he can recall since Arthur’s death, Enjolras sees the fear in his father’s eyes, and it unsettles him. “This is about the realities you and René must face. The world is not as idyllic as you two would hope for and there are real tragedies, real dangers, and real consequences for breaking the rules.”

“You think we don’t know that!” Enjolras shouts, breaking his silence. “Do you think Frantz doesn’t know that, of all people? That I don’t know that?”

“Then stop behaving as you are!” Michel exclaims in a rare use of a raised voice. “If you really think you know, then you have to stop or the consequences will be worse than you imagine.”

“Michel,” Astra says, sounding concerned now, reaching out as if to touch her husband’s shoulder, something Enjolras hasn’t seen her do in years, but his father shakes her off. “What has gotten into you?”

“I will no longer allow you to coddle them, Astra,” Michel says, and his own eyes look wet now. “This is the end of it. René must take up his position and Frantz must learn his place.”

There’s a silence so deep and so long that it feels loud and thunderous in Enjolras’ ears, and before he even really considers it, he speaks. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the words come out as cold as the winter breezes he barely remembers from England.

“Arthur Combeferre would be _ashamed_ of you.”

His father stares at him, a few tears breaking loose from the older man’s eyes before he quickly wipes them away, and Enjolras swears he can hear something in his father break, something that echoes in his own soul, more painful even than his throbbing nose and cheek. But with it comes an odd relief, a sense of rebirth. This old life is fading, and he knows now for certain it cannot be mended. Not until his father changes. For now, the only saving grace is to leave it behind entirely. Michel tears his eyes away from Enjolras and looks at Combeferre as if searching for answers, as if he sees father rather than son, but Combeferre simply glares back, a silent agreement with Enjolras’ words.

“Clean yourself up,” Michel says, voice hard, a far cry from the father of a few moments ago asking to look at his nose. “Then go to your rooms, both of you. Separately. Javert, please make sure they do, if you would.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, a reflection of his younger self in his eyes, and Enjolras remembers the 21-year-old man he crossed swords with that night on his father’s ship, and it feels like a scene from another life.

“Astra, I need to speak with you,” Michel says, gesturing toward the parlor he’d just exited with the governor.

Before she goes, Astra presses kisses onto both Enjolras and Combeferre’s foreheads, and almost as soon as the parlor door closes Enjolras hears the sound of his parent’s raised voices.

Enjolras heads to the kitchen, Combeferre by his side and Javert close behind. He pours some water into a bowl, making to wet the now bloodied handkerchief Javert gave him.

“Here,” Javert says from behind him, holding out a second. “Better to use a clean one.”

“I don’t need your help,” Enjolras says, pushing his hand away.

“René,” Javert growls, wolf-like. “Just take it. Don’t be foolish.”

“Fine,” Enjolras says, taking it and wetting it with water.

“Here,” Combeferre says, moving to stand in front of him. “Let me do it.”

“It’s…” Enjolras tries.

“Easier for me to see the blood so I can actually clean it off?” Combeferre asks with a sad smile. “Yes it is.”

Enjolras smiles back, relenting and handing over the damp cloth, Javert’s eyes watching them still.

“It looks like it’s stopped bleeding,” Combeferre says, wiping the blood off, though any touch to his nose still twinges. “But you’re going to have a bruise here and on your cheek, I’m afraid.”

“How’s your cheek?” Enjolras asks. “It’s still red.”

“Stings,” Combeferre says. “But not much to do about that except wait for it to stop.”

“I’m sorry he hit you,” Enjolras whispers.

“Well, I’m sorry he hit you,” Combeferre answers. “Besides. It was worth it if prevented another blow to you. There was already enough of that to be going on with.”

A few more minutes pass and Combeferre cleans away the rest of the blood.

“It hurts a great deal?” Combferre asks.

Enjolras hesitates, then nods. The pain is sharp now, and he suspects the ache will not dissipate for some time.

“I don’t think bandaging it will help a great deal, unfortunately,” Combeferre says. “But at least the bleeding has ceased and I think I removed it all. But you’ll need to be careful how you sleep.”

“Well then,” Javert says, and Enjolras had almost forgotten he was there. “Upstairs with both of you. Let’s go.”

With no choice but to do as told, Enjolras and Combeferre look at each other once more before following Javert up the stairs, still hearing Michel and Astra’s voices but unable to distinguish specific words, the sounds fading as they walk further away.

“Into your rooms,” Javert says. “And no sneaking out, or I will hear it.”

“Yes _sir_ ,” Enjolras says.

“Enough René,” Javert says. “Do not mock me.”

“So you believe I got what was coming to me?”

“No,” Javert says, irritated. “I believe the governor lost his temper and overstepped. But it still does not mean you should have disobeyed your father as you have.”

“So this was too far, but up until now was all right,” Enjolras says.

“Bed,” Javert snaps. “Now.”

Enjolras catches Combeferre’s eyes in silent communication before they close each of their doors. He listens for Javert’s footfalls going down the stairs, though they stop there, and Enjolras suspects he’s sitting at the bottom, both listening out for their disobedience and waiting for his father to emerge. It’s too risky to try sneaking into Combeferre’s room, so Enjolras opens his window, hoping the creak and his glance at Combeferre a few moments ago will signal his friend. A few moments later he hears Combeferre’s window open as well, and though they cannot see each other, they can hear enough to talk. There’s quiet for a few moments, the enormity of the evening sinking in before Combeferre speaks.

“We cannot wait two weeks,” Combeferre whispers. “Unless Auden cannot find us passage until then, I…think we should go as soon as possible.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “I was about to say the same. Auden said he would be back tonight, if he could. We should tell him we need to get out as quickly as possible.”

“It’s a danger,” Combeferre says. “With your father and Javert still here. But…”

“We have nothing to lose,” Enjolras finishes. “I cannot…” he struggles with his words, the image of his grandfather carting Combeferre off to jail almost too much for him to imagine. “I cannot imagine staying here for any longer than necessary with my grandfather’s threat against you.”

“And with your father’s threat to send you away,” Combeferre reminds him. “No. We have to go.”

“We’ll find a way out,” Enjolras says, believing it with everything in him, but also saying it aloud so he can convince himself as much as Combeferre. “I know it. I trust Auden. I trust the three of us.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras hears the smile in his voice. “So do I.”

Enjolras looks up at the stars spread out across the canvas of the sky, spotting Orion off in the distance. He looks down, seeing the shoreline and the sea, the sounds of it calling out to his heart, showing him the freedom he so desperately seeks.

 _I’m waiting for you_ , the water seems to say. _Come home._

* * *

Three days after they went back to help the slaves they’d discovered, Courfeyrac finds himself once again at the docks. It had been easy enough to get out of the house despite his transgressions, but getting to the docks without his father spotting him had been far more difficult. But this morning his parents were far too busy celebrating the news of his mother’s pregnancy, and he’d been able to slip out. It’s appropriate, he thinks. Just as he’s about to make plans to run away they’ll have another child to replace him with. Part of him wonders if they’ll be too distracted by their new fortunes and the new child on the way to even look for him for long. He walks back and forth on the deck of the docked ship, waiting for the captain. He thinks of seeing Enjolras’ bruised face through the window a few nights ago, remembers hearing of Governor Travers’ threat against Combeferre, and feels anger crush through any guilt he feels about leaving his parents. He doesn’t care what it takes; he will get the three of them out of Port Royal as soon as he’s able.

“My quartermaster said you were looking for me?” a man’s voice says, emerging onto the deck. He stops, studying Courfeyrac’s face. “You’re Aldridge Courfeyrac’s son.”

“Yes sir, Captain Barlow,” Courfeyrac says, removing his hat. “But I’m not here on my father’s behalf. I’m here to…” he lowers his voice. “Ask a favor. A favor I’m willing to pay for.”

“I’m not in the business of granting favors, son,” Captain Barlow says, but he gives himself away with the interested twinkle in his eye.

“I know you gave some escaped slaves passage out under the guise of transporting them,” Courfeyrac says, whispering now. “So you seemed like the man to come to.”

Captain Barlow narrows his eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I have my sources,” Courfeyrac says, sly. “And not only that, I also happen to know that you don’t care very much for my father.”

“Don’t care for the way he does business with East India,” Captain Barlow says. “Makes it seem like every privateer must in order to keep up, forcing us to do business through them more often than not rather than on our own as I’d prefer. What do you want boy?”

“I need to get out of Port Royal,” Courfeyrac says. “Along with two of my friends. And with the knowledge that you’d helped people in need before, and the fact that perhaps you’d like to get the better of my father, well. It encouraged me to choose you.”

Courfeyrac meets his eyes, and there’s something like fondness within them, but then he frowns.

“You go around with Michel Enjolras’ son, Governor Travers’ grandson,” he says. “And that mulatto boy who was Arthur Combeferre’s son. Are those the friends you mean? You would like me to help those two escape? You would like me to risk the absolute anger of two of the most powerful men in the Caribbean? Arthur was a good man, helped me out once when I ran afoul of East India. But this is more of a risk than I’m willing to take.”

“They’ll have no way of knowing it was you,” Courfeyrac says, trying not to allow the desperation into his voice. “We’ll just stow away right before you set sail, which it seems like you’re planning to do this evening. And like I said, we can pay for the voyage and you can let us off at any island.”

“The money isn’t the point lad,” Captain Barlow says. “The point is that if they found out I’m a dead man at worst. An outcast with a lost commission at best.”

“Sir,” Courfeyrac tries again, twisting his hat in his hands. “This is not a flight of fancy. Frantz, Arthur Combeferre’s son he…well he’s in danger, all right? I…he’s not safe. Not for long, anyhow.”

Captain Barlow sighs, but gives. “How do you mean? He’s been living in an odd situation for some time, hasn’t he?”

“The situation has changed,” Courfeyrac presses.

“Hmm,” Captain Barlow says, and Courfeyrac sees something like sympathy flicker in the man’s eyes. “I heard about Michel Enjolras finding the three of you on his ship. Something about discovering slaves. I imagine that didn’t end well.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says, hearing the bitterness in his own voice. “It didn’t.”

“Is it true the governor beats his grandson?”

“What?” Courfeyrac asks, surprised. “How did you…”

“Perfect families are not usually so perfect,” Captain Barlow says.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s true.”

“What do you mean the Combeferre boy is in danger?” Captain Barlow asks. “Specifically.”

“There was a…tussle,” Courfeyrac explains. “And Frantz was trying to stop the governor from hitting René again. I’m sure you can imagine how the governor took that, and he threatened to press charges if it happened again. Which means he’ll find a way to get what he wants in the end. He’s been looking for a way to get Frantz out of that family since I’ve known them and I won’t see my friend hurt or jailed or killed. Even if you don’t help us.”

Captain Barlow stays silent for a few moments, eyes surveying Courfeyrac’s face until a tiny, begrudging smile slips onto his lips.

“Sunset,” he says, shaking his head as if he already regrets it. “Be here and on the ship or I’ll leave without you.”

“The money…” Courfeyrac tries.

The captain waves his hand. “Keep it. I’m sure you’ll need it where you’re going, my boy. These waters are wilder than you know.”

“Thank you sir,” Courfeyrac says. “Just…thank you.”

“Just be here,” Captain Barlow says. “Do not be late.”

Courfeyrac nods, and the moment Captain Barlow walks away he dashes off, running as quickly as he can toward the Enjolras house. His eyes dart back and forth across the drive before he runs across, slipping through the grove of trees outside Enjolras’ window, throwing another rock so that it hits the window softly. After a moment Enjolras opens it, and Courfeyrac’s surprised to see Combeferre’s head pop out too.

“You’re allowed in the same room?” Courfeyrac asks. “I didn’t think you were.”

“Still not allowed out of the house,” Enjolras explains, and it burns Courfeyrac down to the core when he sees the purpling of Enjolras’ cheek and nose. “But in the same room, at least since last night. Due to _good behavior_ , so my father said.”

“What’s the news?” Combeferre asks, looking apprehensive.

“Tonight,” Courfeyrac says, keeping his voice as low as possible. “I found us passage out tonight.”

Enjolras and Combeferre look at each other, and the slight smiles on their faces send one onto Courfeyrac’s own.

“Sunset,” Courfeyrac continues. “Captain Barlow’s ship at the fourth dock. I know it’s sudden, but…”

“It’s for the best,” Enjolras finishes. “Remind me to ask you how you did it later.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, grinning now. “I _am_ a genius.”

“Are you going to be able to slip out of your house easily enough?” Combeferre asks. “We’re getting packed here.”

“My parents are celebrating the announcement of my mother’s pregnancy,” Courfeyrac says. “They won’t even know I’m missing at first.”

Combeferre opens his mouth to ask about this news, but then they hear the front door open and close, so there’s no time.

“You two just get out of here as easily as possible,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s too risky for me to meet you here, so just meet me on the ship, all right? Be careful.”

“You too,” Enjolras says, shutting the window.

With that, Courfeyrac watches for a moment, waiting until the coast is clear, then dashes off again toward his father’s house, hopefully for the last time.

* * *

“Do we have everything?” Enjolras asks, rifling through his knapsack, which is nearly filled to the brim. There’s three extra sets of clothes rolled tightly together, some dried food, water, and money they’d gotten gambling tucked safely into its own separate bag. He’s traded his usual shoes for the boots he wears when sailing, and a second jacket aside from the one he wears rests on top of everything else.

“I think so,” Combeferre says, contemplating his own bag, which includes a few books and pamphlets that he was able to stuff inside.

“I know you never forget, but your freedom papers?” Enjolras asks.

Combeferre pats his inside jacket pocket, indicating they rest inside. “Though I don’t know how well they’ll serve me if the people who ask me to present them know we’re being searched for. Because they will be looking for us. All over.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, knowing just what a low profile they’ll be required to keep. “We’ll have to find a way to get you new ones. Forged ones. I’m sure we can do it.”

Combeferre nods. “Now I suppose we just have to wait. Are you going to write that letter to your mother?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, gesturing to the writing utensils on his desk and feeling his heart clench. If there’s one thing he hates about this entire ordeal, it’s leaving his mother behind. “But there’s something else we need to do before we go to the ship.”

“What’s that?” Combeferre questions, arching one eyebrow. “I don’t like the tone in your voice.”

“My sword,” Enjolras says. “Javert has it. In his rooms. He has a few actually, that we’ve used to practice. But he keeps them there.”

Combeferre pauses. “Are you saying you want to steal? From Javert? Don’t mistake me, I’m not opposed to you stealing the swords, but from _Javert_? If he finds us…”

“He won’t,” Enjolras says. “I heard him talking to my father this morning. He’s supposed to be doing work on the ship until sunset. So if we time it correctly then we should be all right. We can’t go out there with something to defend ourselves. I don’t know if we’ll need weapons initially, but I’m sure we will eventually.”

“No, you’re right,” Combeferre says. “I don’t like the risk, but you’re right. We’ll have to be extremely careful.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says with a nod. “We will.”

A half hour later Enjolras seals up the letter he intends to leave his mother, and he and Combeferre shut their bags, listening closely for the sounds of anyone in the house, but hearing nothing. They walk toward his mother’s room, but just as he’s about to leave the letter under her perfume bottle, he hears her voice behind them.

“René?” she asks, sounding bewildered, but as her eyes land on their bags and the letter, it’s clear she’s putting the pieces together. “Frantz? What are you doing?”

“I didn’t think you were home,” Enjolras answers, still laying the letter down on her armoire. “Where’s father? Is he home also?”

“No,” his mother says, kind when she notices him tense. “He’s with…”

“His mistress?” Enjolras questions, finishing her thought.

“Yes,” Astra says, eyebrows knitting together in the middle. “How did you know about her?”

“I’ve heard you arguing,” Enjolras says. “And I…I saw them together one night when I wasn’t supposed to be out,” he continues, feeling the blush creeping into his cheeks. “I saw them walking. It’s Madam Crewe, the rich widow of that young navy captain who died a few years ago.”

“Well, you are well informed,” she says. “But that will not distract me from what you’re doing. You’re running away.”

Enjolras doesn’t quite know how to respond in the face of such directness, even if he usually employs the same tactics himself. There’s a silence as he locks eyes with his mother, unable to read her.

“It’s for me,” Combeferre finally says, speaking up. “First we discovered the slaves, and then Captain Enjolras threatened to send René away to boarding school and then…” he trails off.

“My father’s threat,” she says, soft, understanding. “To press charges against you.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, regaining his voice. “And the way he struck René, well. You saw it.”

“Mother,” Enjolras says, walking up and clasping both of her hands. “You know grandfather will find a way to get Frantz in trouble and we just…we can’t stay here. There’s too much risk.”

His mother doesn’t answer for a moment, squeezing both of his hands and he’s not sure if that’s good or bad. She gazes at him as if she’s memorizing him, and suddenly tears spring to her eyes, and she doesn’t wipe them away as they fall.

“I know,” she finally says, voice trembling. “I know you can’t. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.”

She lets go of one of Enjolras’ hands and gestures Combeferre forward, wrapping both of her arms around them, though it’s difficult now that they’re older. She holds them against her for a few minutes, and Enjolras closes his eyes, grasping at the sleeve of her dress, knowing just how much he’ll miss her. She lets go, her fingers lingering before turning toward her dresser and digging around in the back of one of the drawers and pulling out a small pouch.

“Take this,” she says, handing it to Enjolras. “It’s money. A good bit.”

“You won’t get in trouble with father?” Enjolras asks, worried.

“No,” she says, waving her hand. “I’m allowed to spend money as I see fit, for the most part. He’ll never know it’s missing. You’ll need it.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras breathes, gratitude rushing through him. “I’m…I’m sorry, Mama,” he says, not sorry for what they have to do, but sorry for having to leave her behind, knowing the pain their absence will cause her, let alone the worry she’ll face.

“Oh darling,” she says, putting a hand on his face. “You’re not the ones who should be sorry.”

She moves over to Combeferre, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Your father would be proud of you, Frantz. That’s one thing I know for certain. You are unceasingly intelligent, and I could not ask for a better friend for my son. You do belong here, and I only wish I could have fixed this. But you deserve better.”

“Thank you Madam Enjolras,” he says, blinking back tears behind his spectacles. “For everything. For this.”

“You’re welcome sweetheart,” she says, ruffling his curls before focusing once more on her son.

“How are you getting out?” she asks. “It’s safe?”

“Auden got us passage on Captain Barlow’s ship,” Enjolras says.

“The man who was rumored to have helped slaves escape,” Astra murmurs. “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” She turns, looking outside as the sun starts its slow descent from the sky. “We’d best get you out, before your father returns.”

“But what if he suspects you helped us?” Enjolras asks.

“He won’t,” she replies. “I’ll leave just after you and find something to occupy myself in town. Then I’ll return and pretend to find the letter you left me.”

She puts both hands on his face, such love in her eyes that it nearly steals his breath away. And not for the first time he feels something kindred in their spirits, something stronger than the blood they share, something that tells him she understands what it is to be different, to want something else than what was given to her. One day, he tells himself, if it’s possible, he will grant that wish for freedom he sees in her eyes, the freedom she so selflessly sends them toward now.

“Be careful,” she says, kissing his forehead, her hair that is the same shade as his own brushing against his cheek, careful to avoid the bruises her father left on his face. “Promise me you will.”

“I promise,” Enjolras says. “Thank you,” he continues, voice cracking. “I love you.”

“And I you,” she says, running a thumb across his uninjured cheek. “Both of you. And that’s why I know I have to let you go.”

She walks them to the front door, looking around to make sure no one is approaching, and looks at them one last time as if she’s painting a picture in her mind.

“Go,” she whispers, clasping Enjolras hand one last time. “Take care of each other. I’ll see you again one day. I swear it.”

They both nod, holding her gaze for a moment before turning and running, and Enjolras thinks he can never forget the ghost of his mother’s last touch on his fingertips, holding on for just a second to the edge of his navy blue jacket. They run until they’re nearly out of breath just to make sure they’re away from the house, stopping for a moment to catch a second of rest.

“I can’t believe it’s happening,” Combeferre says, resting his hands on his knees.

“I know,” Enjolras says, starting to walk again, swiping the moisture out of his eyes at the memory of his mother. “This way to Javert’s. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to get the swords.”

They run away and a few minutes later find themselves in front of Javert’s small house that isn’t far from the shore. He rents it, Enjolras knows, but he’s lived here ever since he came to Port Royal, though he’s scarcely home.

“How will we get in?” Combeferre asks. “Javert certainly wouldn’t leave without locking the door.”

“No,” Enjolras says. “You’re right. I’m going to try the window. But stay here. I’ll go in.”

“René,” Combeferre says, annoyed. “I told you. We’re in this together.”

“I know we are,” Enjolras says, grasping his hand. “But on the very off chance that Javert catches us, it would be far worse if you were caught stealing from an East India officer’s house. It would be just the thing my grandfather’s looking for. Besides, I’m in need of a lookout.”

“All right,” Combeferre says, disgruntled but relenting. “Try the window so we can get out of here, I don’t like this.”

Enjolras nods, turning to try the bedroom window on the side of the house.

“Damn,” he says. “It’s locked.”

“Here,” Combeferre says, handing him a rock. “Bust the glass.”

“Thought you didn’t like this?” Enjolras asks, smirking.

“Oh, don’t smirk,” Combeferre says. “Auden’s rubbing off on you. I don’t like it, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re right about the necessity. Just throw it.”

Enjolras does, and the glass breaks, making a louder sound than he likes. He reaches carefully through, avoiding the broken pieces and undoing the latch. He opens the window, climbing inside.

“Quickly,” Combeferre reminds him. “He might come back early.”

Enjolras looks around, spotting the two rapiers they’d recently begun using in the corner, next to the court swords. The rapiers are better weapons, he thinks, but much harder to run with, so he chooses the two court swords. He looks around the room, eyes landing on a box resting atop a chest, the only other piece of furniture in the sparse room aside from the bed. There’s almost no indication of Javert’s personality in the room, no paintings, no colors, nothing, and an odd sadness strikes Enjolras that he can’t quite explain and doesn’t have time to consider. He opens the box, finding a pistol, the one usually strapped to Javert’s belt when he’s out on journeys, but he must have not needed it this evening, so he’d stored it carefully here. He’s about to reach into the under layer of the box when he hears Combeferre’s voice.

“René, someone’s coming around,” he says, tone cut through with urgency. “I don’t know if it’s Javert, but we need to go.”

Something tells Enjolras to take the box, making sure the gun isn’t in a firing position before shoving the entire box in his bag, tossing the swords out to Combeferre, and climbing out the window just as he hears the front door open. He seizes Combeferre’s hand and they take off running, faster than before, not stopping until they reach the shore, their lungs burning and the dock just a few feet away. There are clouds overhead, a drizzle of rain coming down mixed with wind, though there’s no real sign of a storm approaching, more of a misting to slice through the heat and humidity. No lightning, no thunder, just rain.

“Here,” Enjolras says, handing Combeferre one of the swords. “Strap this to your bag.”

Combeferre does, but just as Enjolras secures his own he sees a figure visible through the curtain of light rain, a tall, menacing shape in an East India uniform.

Javert.

Before they can move Javert grabs Combeferre’s knapsack, pulling him back.

“What on _earth_ are the two of you doing?” he shouts, black hair damp wet against his face. He holds tightly to Combeferre’s arm now, and Combeferre cannot break free.

“Let him go, Javert,” Enjolras says, every fiber of his being aching with desperation, heavy pain throbbing in every muscle, emotion made physically manifest. He has never wanted something so badly in his entire life, never sought such an escape.

Javert stares at him, and Enjolras sees the pieces flying together behind his eyes.

“You’re running away,” he says. “You think I wouldn’t figure that out, after what you just did? Breaking my window and stealing from me? Foolish boy.”

“Just let him go,” Enjolras says, pleading with him and drawing on any remaining affection for him Javert posesses, even though he knows Javert’s respect for authority will inevitably win out. “Just… _please_.”

“You do not do this,” Javert says, and Combeferre pulls away once again to no avail. “You do not run away.”

“I can’t be here anymore!” Enjolras shouts, feeling his throat grow raw from the effort. “And Frantz can’t be here, not now, not after my father, what’s he’s doing, what my grandfather threatened.”

“Frantz is not going to end up in the slave trade,” Javert says. “If you’re worried about that, you should know better. Your father would never allow such a thing.”

“No,” Combeferre says, pulling away with all his might, but Javert is too tall and too strong. “He’ll just allow it for people who look like me that don’t have the privilege of being his ward. And you heard Governor Travers’ threat against me, you saw what he did to René. Let go of me, dammit.”

“What, your little privateer friend got you passage somewhere?” Javert says, and Enjolras sees the disdain in his eyes. “I knew Auden Courfeyrac was trouble when I first laid eyes on him, and now look.”

“It’s none of your business,” Enjolras replies.

“It is _entirely_ my business,”

Enjolras reaches inside his bag for the gun he’d stolen from Javert, leaving the box inside. He pulls it out and cocks it, pointing it far out to the side so it doesn’t accidentally hit either Javert or Combeferre.

“René, what are you doing?” Javert asks. “Do not…”

The shot goes off, loud to Enjolras’ own ears. The bullet lodges in a tree, wood breaking and spattering across the sand.

Javert's surprise at the sound alone makes him let go of Combeferre.

"You do not shoot at people, boy," Javert says, shedding the use of his name, signaling trouble.

"I wasn't shooting at you," Enjolras says. "I had no intention of shooting at you. I was shooting at the tree to make you let go. And you did. My strength lies in swordsmanship and I’m not as good a shot as Frantz, but I think I can aim well enough so as not to hit you."

"Drop the gun."

"No," Enjolras says firmly. The pistol only held one shot, but he’s certain more ammunition is inside the box, so he won’t give up so easily even if it’s empty now.. Not when they might need it.

"René," he tries again.

"NO."

Before Enjolras quite knows what's happening, Javert is before him, grabbing his arm. They both slide on the wet sand, falling, and Javert reaches for the gun, but Enjolras keeps hold. Enjolras kicks at Javert but despite his height, Javert is a fully grown man, and a large one. After a moment he has Enjolras' legs pinned to the ground with his knees, reaching for the gun and throwing it a good distance. In response, Enjolras swings, catching Javert's face, but so wildly that Javert grabs hold of first one wrist and then the other.

"Calm _down_ ," Javert says. “You are going to hurt yourself more than me.”

 _You must maintain control_ , Enjolras hears Javert say, a memory from their sparring lessons. _You must have balance and precision._

"You do not have power over me," Enjolras says, twisting in an attempt to get away. "You are not my father, you are not..." he pushes, but nothing happens. “ _Anything_." It’s a lie. Javert _does_ mean something to him, and that’s why all of his betrayals hurt more than he wants to admit, even now, after everything.

Hurt passes through Javert's eyes, but after barely a second it becomes encased in fury.

"This is the game you're going to play now?" Javert asks. "That you care nothing about me? Nothing about your father? Your mother?"

For just a moment Enjolras deflates, but his words are sure.

"I care about Frantz _more_. You didn't stop my father, you didn't do anything because of your precious code, your precious law and authority and expectation. You wouldn’t give that up, no matter what it cost, no matter how much pain you saw in front of you.”

Enjolras thrashes, and slippery as they are, Javert has trouble keeping hold. Enjolras pulls one of his wrists free, still thrashing, and pushes at Javert as he also frees his foot, kicking erratically.

"Stop!" Javert growls. "I swear to God if it wouldn't embarrass your father I would let the authorities handle you and see how you liked spending a night in jail, you are nothing but a wealthy brat playing games..."

At this, Enjolras slams his knee into Javert’s chest, shocking him, and Javert backhands him out of instinct, the EITC ring Enjolras' father gave him for his last birthday swiping hard at the skin just above his eye. Enjolras feels blood trickling down his skin, a dull pain mixing in with the remaining ache from his grandfather’s blows.

Javert stops dead, eyes wide as he kneels over Enjolras, still pinning one of his arms to the sand, shaken at what he’s done, but unable to force any kind of apology out. Enjolras sees the same memory playing in Javert’s eyes that swirls in his own mind, when he was twelve and his grandfather bruised his arm just before they’d met Courfeyrac, hearing Javert’s words ringing in his head like another broken promise.

_I am not going to strike you, René. I have never done so._

Then there's the sound of someone hitting Javert in the side with a heavy branch from behind.

"Let him GO."

He holds a branch broken off by the wind in his hands, eyes narrowed in absolute determination, unforgiving and resolute.

The impact makes Javert lose his grip with a grunt of pain, knocking him over.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, almost smiling despite the situation. “You’re a genius.”

“You shot a tree and got tackled for me,” Combeferre says, finishing the smile Enjolras started. “Come on, let’s go.”

Enjolras scrambles up, grabbing Combeferre by the hand and racing off toward the ship, Courfeyrac, and their freedom ahead. They reach the ship just as the sun sets, leaping from the dock and onto the deck, Courfeyrac meeting them with very worried grin.

“I thought I told you to tell your friends not to be late,” the man Enjolras recognizes as Captain Barlow says.

“They made it,” Courfeyrac says. “So technically they weren’t.”

“Why are you bleeding boy?” Captain Barlow asks without introduction, looking at Enjolras.

“We encountered some…trouble on our way here,” Enjolras says, hoping this won’t change the captain’s mind.

“In the form of a certain East India officer, I’m sure,” Captain Barlow says, and Enjolras thinks he sees the older man fighting a smile. “Go below deck and find a hammock. I don’t want anyone seeing you.” He turns to his crew. “Anchors aweigh, lads! Let’s get going. I don’t want anyone following us.”

For a moment Enjolras worries Javert will recognize the ship as it sails off, but the fog by the shore is thick enough to obscure his vision in the dying sunlight. It’s better toward the water and easy to sail through, and Enjolras thanks the heavens for the strange weather. He feels a thrill in his chest as he meets Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s eyes, their smiles matching his own. They go below deck, and Enjolras still feels his heart pounding in his chest from the adrenaline. They find three hammocks side by side and Enjolras reaches into his bag, pulling out the box that formerly held the gun he’d lost in the tussle.

“What’s that?” Courfeyrac asks. “And where you’d get the swords?”

“Javert,” Enjolras says, matter of fact. “We broke into his house. He was the reason we almost didn’t make it.”

“You stole from Javert?” Courfeyrac asks, raising his eyebrows. “Impressive. What was that shot I heard go off?”

“René shot a tree to make Javert let go of me,” Combeferre says, checking through his own bag.

“Then Frantz hit him with a tree branch to make him let go of _me_ ,” Enjolras replies, opening the box and lifting off the top. “I lost the gun, unfortunately.”

“ _Very_ impressive!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “You two, having all the fun without me. Don’t feel too badly about the gun, I stole one from my father,” he says, pleased with himself. “And brought the engraved knife he gave me for my birthday. What’s in the box?”

“The gun was in here,” Enjolras says. “And there’s bullets, but they’re useless now without it, and…” he stops eyes landing on the other remaining thing in the box, and thing he certainly hadn’t meant to steal: the bracelet Javert showed him as they sat on the rocks by the shore a year ago, looking at the stars. It’s the same one, Enjolras is sure, _Romani_ etched into the leather on the inside.

“What’s that?” Combeferre asks, eyeing it with curiosity.

“Just…” Enjolras stops for a moment, considering. He can’t think of a single thing, aside from this that he’s never told Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but something about Javert’s expression that night prevented him from doing so, and he kept the secret, even from the two people closest to him. There’s too much going on to explain now, so he simply puts it back in the box, latching it shut before placing it in the bottom of his bag with everything else on top. “It’s nothing. Just something of Javert’s he showed me once, but I didn’t intend to take it.”

Courfeyrac hands him a handkerchief to wipe the trickle of blood off his face, and they hear the sound of the anchor going up, hear the men cutting the ropes, and the ship starts sailing away. In wordless agreement they slip up to the top of the stairs, not going up on the deck but peeking out onto it. The sun dies on the horizon as the night sky takes its place, a few stars bleeding into the still darkening sky as the moon rises. He feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac each take one of his hands and he squeezes back, his heart too full to speak just now. The wind ruffles at his hair as the ship sails away, and he knows Javert won’t have time to alert his father and ready a ship in time to catch up with them. He breathes in the salty air, and no matter the ache in his face, joy springs up in his soul, mixed with utter relief.

They’re free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was chapter 5! We will catch up with the Trio at the start of Book II, in approximately 4 chapters or so. In the next two chapters we'll meet Valjean, Fantine, Cosette, and Feuilly (with appearances from Javert and Astra!)


	6. Book I (Beginnings): Section 2, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean, a convict laborer aboard an East India ship, meets Fantine, who has been sold into slavery by her former love, Tholomyes and is being transported from a sugar plantation to a wealthy home in Port Royal, Jamaica. Together they escape the ship, forming a begrudging friendship and finding unexpected help along the way. 
> 
> (Complete with references to baby Cosette and little Feuilly, who we will meet in the next chapter!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on Fantine's heritage, which she references during the chapter: "The Maroons were escaped slaves. They ran away from their Spanish-owned plantations when the British took the Caribbean island of Jamaica from Spain in 1655. The word maroon comes from the Spanish word ‘cimarrones‘, which meant ‘mountaineers’. They fled to the mountainous areas of Jamaica, where it was difficult for their owners to follow and catch them, and formed independent communities as free men and women." (From discoveringbristol.org)

**Book I (Beginnings): Part 2, Section 1**

**Caribbean Sea near Port Royal, Jamaica. May 1695.**

Valjean wants to run away.

That familiar destructive urge flows through his blood again, even if none of his attempts have worked out for him in the past. Even if he knows he likely won’t succeed. Even as he tries pushing the thoughts away. Being on a ship makes it worse, because the salty air around him _smells_ like freedom, and yet here he is, unable to appreciate it as such. A vague plan forms in his mind as he scrubs the walls of the cargo hold on the East India ship, hating this plight more with every passing second. The sound of crying pours into the silence, interrupting his musings.

It isn't the first time he's heard those kind of quiet, desperate tears, soft in volume but loud in heartbreak, and it certainly won't be the last. Crying is part of the faded background of his life, intertwined into the fabric and never coming out. He'd heard his mother crying when his father died and left them even more penniless than before, a native Carib woman who'd fallen in love with an escaped African slave, the lowest of the low of the hierarchy in this society they lived in, but still she was still inevitably human, something the rich white colonialists forgot. Or perhaps forgetting it meant they could also forget the crimes they committed, taking other people’s humanity and selling it to the highest bidder.

Truth be told, he doesn't want to think about the humanity of the woman he hears crying now. Because then he would have to care, and caring is exhausting. Caring got him exactly where he is now, doing convict labor on an East India ship after stealing food for his family. He'd said goodbye to his sister, her husband, and his nieces and nephew one night when he was 25 years old, and now at 32 he has not seen them since, bound as he is to this sentence for another decade. It was only five years at first, but he tried to escape so many times that they just kept adding on, finally placing him here on this ship where there _was_ no escape. Ironic, he thinks, given the sea should bestow the ultimate feeling of freedom. There are no bars, but he is trapped nevertheless.

"Could you please be quiet?" he grumbles at the woman, voice still holding a shade of gentleness he doesn’t recognize as such. "I'm sorry you're upset, but I can't work in peace with you doing that."

The woman sniffs, swallows, and there's a pause before she speaks. 

"Doubt you'd ever find peace on this wretched ship anyway," she says, voice raw. 

"They just brought you on few days ago when we docked in Haiti," Valjean says, turning toward her. "Where did you come from?"

"They took me out of the sugar fields and are selling me to some kind of wealthy family in Port Royal to work in the house," she answers. “I don’t know to who.”

“Better than a sugar plantation," Valjean replies. He remembers his father’s stories from when he was a boy, and he’ll never forget the fear he saw there when he spoke of the cries of slaves ringing out against the sting of the whip by the overseer when they didn’t harvest quickly enough.  

"Maybe,” she says, studying him as she wipes her eyes. “But further away from my daughter. Her father, well…he had me framed as a runaway slave, sent me to work in a house, and I got to keep my daughter at first. But then when she was two they sent me to work on a sugar plantation and took her away to some family called the Thenardiers to be a house slave as soon as she was old enough. They're slave runners, so I heard. I haven't seen her since, and that was a two years ago."

"Well," Valjean grumbles, bothered by how much this woman looks like his sister. "I'm sorry."

"What about you?" she asks. "How did you end up here?"

"Why?" 

"Well we're here aren't we? Might as well talk. No one else much on this ship except East India officers, and I don't think they want to talk to us."

"I'm a convict," Valjean says. "I'm not sure you want to talk to me."

She laughs. "And I'm a slave. We're both at the bottom of the pole. I'm not going to judge you. I haven’t seen a friendly face since I came aboard."

"What if I'm a murderer?" he asks, stopping his scrubbing. "You don't know what I've done."

"They wouldn't have a murderer doing convict labor on a ship," Fantine points out. "Besides, you don't look it. Just tell me."

"I stole food," Valjean finally says. "My sister has 7 children, so you can imagine how hard it is to feed that many mouths."

“I can,” she says, soft. “Were you born here? In the Caribbean?”

Valjean nods, bewildered by this woman, but unable to tear himself away.

“I was too,” she says. “My family comes from the Jamaican Maroons, so I was free until Tholomyes…” she stops, swallowing back against an obvious wave of emotion. **“** I’m Fantine,” she says, tentatively offering her name.

“Valjean,” he says, gruff. “Jean Valjean. Or prisoner 24601, as they like to call me here.”

His eyes run over the woman again, noting the red patches on her arms where manacles once were, boxes of sugar stacked next to her as if she’s no different than a confection the English put in their tea. His gaze falls down to a locket that’s slipping out of her a small pocket in her shirt, surprised it’s still in her possession, simple though it is.

“This holds a lock of my daughter’s hair,” she says, a glint of defiance in her eyes. “I keep it as a reminder that I’m going to find her again one day.”

Unbidden he remembers leaving his small home on Barbados, drawn back by the cry of his one-year-old nephew who slept nearby. The child, who his sister said looked like him, reached his hand out, grasping Valjean’s finger. At first it was all Valjean could think about, that final moment when he’d quietly promised the child he wouldn’t go hungry anymore, but he’s banished it since, unable to think upon it. He hasn’t cried since his first few nights in jail, and he doesn’t plan on starting now.

 _Jahni Feuilly_ , he hears himself say. _That’s a mouthful for a baby._

 _He’s going to do things_ , his sister says in reply, hope in her eyes despite their circumstance. _He’s going to be smart._

 _Or he’ll end up just like me_ , Valjean thinks silently. _Just like this._

“Do you miss them?” Fantine asks, breaking through this rare reverie. “Your family?”

“It doesn’t do me any good to miss them,” he says. “It won’t get me back to them any faster. It won’t get me them back to them at all.”

Fantine frowns, annoyed, but there’s something empathetic in her eyes, and he can barely stand the embers of emotion it invokes, emotions he’d long buried for good reason.

“It’s human nature to miss people we love.”

“Maybe,” he says, noncommittal.

She’s about to respond when Valjean hears the familiar voice of Javert, the young East India officer in charge of himself and the other convict laborer aboard. Well, he _had_ been in charge of the other laborer, but Hawkins died of scurvy a few weeks ago, so Valjean’s workload was doubled.

“24601!” he calls. “On deck.”

He nods at Fantine in farewell, that same sad but curious smile playing at her lips like she sees something in him that he doesn’t recognize. With that he marches up the stairs and up to the deck, noticing a small knot of sailors, one of them looking nervous, the captain’s shouting meeting his ears.

“Sir?” Valjean asks, feeling, as ever, odd about calling a man nearly ten years younger than him such a thing, but he’s learned to do so or face the consequences of showing ‘disrespect.’

“The quarter deck needs scrubbing,” Javert says.

“What’s happening?” Valjean asks, indicating to the small crowd.

“Discipline,” Javert says, vague, but something like discomfort flashes in his eyes as they dart over to where the captain stands.

“For what?” Valjean presses.

“Nothing of concern to you,” Javert says. “Just do as I ordered.”

Valjean turns away from Javert, making to scrub the deck. He’s only just begun when he hears the crack of a whip in the air, the lash hitting the sailor’s back with a sound Valjean is all too familiar with. Disciplinary tactics are largely up the captain’s discretion, Valjean’s learned, and from what he’s seen, Captain Barnett is one of the worst. He flinches when he hears it hit the sailor again and the man cries out, the wounds on his own back throbbing in empathy; the whip has met his own skin before. He chances a glance at Javert, who still stands near him, his face a mask of stone that cracks ever so slightly when he watches the whip hit the other sailor, blood running in rivulets down the skin.

“What?” Javert snaps, catching Valjean’s eye.

“Nothing,” Valjean says, turning back to his work

As the tenth and final lash comes down the crowd disperses, and noticing the captain walking in their direction, Javert darts below deck, likely under the guise of checking on the cargo. Javert is easily the youngest sailor on the ship by a few years, yet despite the fact that he never disobeys and seems competent to Valjean’s eye, he’s seen Captain Barnett shouting at him more than once. He continues scrubbing the deck, ignored by the East India sailors around him as easily as if he were a piece of the ship itself. He nears the stairs leading below, hearing a sudden “no!” coming from a woman who cannot be anyone other than Fantine. Cursing himself for his curiosity he walks down the stairs, pushing open the door to the hold, stopping in the entrance when he sees Javert’s hand grasping Fantine’s wrist.

“Slaves are not permitted personal property,” he says, firm and crisp with his words but not raising his voice.

“I will not give this to you,” Fantine says, a burst of fire in her eyes. “I’m not hurting anyone by having it.”

“It is against _protocol_ ,” Javert emphasizes. “Now do as I say and hand it over.”

“No,” Fantine says, stepping back, Javert’s hand closing tighter over her wrist.

With his free hand Javert reaches for the chain hanging out of her shirt pocket, Fantine simultaneously spitting in his face. He lets go of her wrist, stepping back in surprise. She’s breathing hard, a tiny hint of fear in her eyes, and Javert wipes his face with his sleeve, eyes narrowing in anger.

“How _dare_ you?” he questions. “Give me the locket _immediately_.”

He steps forward toward her, and though he’s young his height and broad shoulders make him look intimidating.

“Sir,” Fantine says, desperate now. “This locket holds a piece of my daughter’s hair, a daughter I’ve been separated from. Surely you can understand that? Surely you had a mother yourself?”

Javert stops dead, eyes widening ever so slightly before narrowing again, his fingers unconsciously wrapping themselves over his wrist for a few seconds as if reaching for a piece of jewelry that he no longer wears.

“That has nothing to do with the protocol,” he insists, though his tone is less calm than before, a growl emerging from beneath.

“Sir,” Valjean says, stepping inside before he quite knows what he’s doing. “They’re looking for you on deck.”

“What?” Javert says, spinning around, frowning.

“They’re looking for you on deck,” Valjean says, repeating the lie.

Javert looks away from him and back at Fantine, snatching the locket from her pocket before she has a chance to stop him.

“Sir _please_ ,” Fantine says, begging now, and it strikes Valjean that the two of them are around the same age, youth clear in both their faces.

“Quiet,” Javert says, pulling manacles from his belt and locking them around her wrists. “Now stay here and do as told or face the consequences.”

With that he turns to go, slamming the door behind him louder than necessary.

Fantine sits back down, putting her head in her hands as best she can now they’re chained together, but something about the loss of the locket sends her beyond tears, and it’s silent for a few moments before she speaks.

“That man is Romani,” she says, looking up again, confusion in her eyes. “You would think….you would think he might understand.”

“Romani?” he asks. “How do you know?”

“I heard him use a curse word under his breath when he was loading the sugar, he didn’t even seem to realize he said it, but I recognized the dialect.”

“You know a dialect of Romani?”

“There were two Romani women on the sugar plantation with me,” Fantine says. “They were sold to the somewhere in the Americas, eventually, but they used to speak to each other, and I heard them curse. I simply…I thought he might understand. But he doesn’t. He’s just as bad as the rest of them.”

“He passes for being one of them,” Valjean answers. “He _wants_ to be one of them.”

Fantine doesn’t answer, eyes looking away from him.

“I’m…” he says, stumbling over his words. “I’m sorry he took your locket.”

She looks up again, meeting his eyes again for a moment, and guilt slices through him. The warm curiosity in her eyes is gone now, replaced by mistrust.

“I have to go back to my work,” he says, turning to go.

“Thank you for distracting him, even if he did end up with the locket,” she says, still more guarded than earlier. “I know you might pay for that later.”

Valjean nods, retreating back up toward the quarter deck and his scrubbing, but after only ten minutes or so finds he’s not alone, Javert’s sharp voice in his ear.

“Valjean,” Javert hisses, abruptly by his side at the bow as he’s continuing his work.

Valjean jumps at the sudden sound, surprised, but even more so at the use of his name, which he he’s scarcely heard since he was arrested that it rings like a shock in its familiarity.

“They were _not_ calling me up from the deck,” Javert says. “You were distracting me from the slave woman.”

“Her name is Fantine,” Valjean insists. “And you just used mine.”

Javert straightens even more, clearing his throat. “A slip,” he says, narrowing his eyes, but he looks young as the sun hits him, striking against his severe expression, black hair swept entirely out of his face and tied back tightly. It’s his eyes, Valjean decides, dark brown and gleaming with a desperation to fit in, to move beyond whatever past he’s running from.

“You also didn’t call the captain when Fantine spit on you and wouldn’t give you the locket,” Valjean says, keeping his voice low, confused at his own interest. “Why’s that?”

“Quiet,” Javert snaps, eyes widening as if he fears the captain will hear them.

“You were afraid he’d think you incompetent,” Valjean says, the pieces coming together in his brain, feeling an unexpected twinge of sympathy.

“24601,” Javert warns. “Enough.”

“You don’t like the way he runs his ship,” Valjean presses.

“He is my captain and I will obey him,” Javert insists, looking nervous now.

“You shouldn’t want to be one of them,” Valjean says, voice barely audible now. “You…”

 “Enough,” Javert repeats, but he doesn’t reach out to strike or touch Valjean. In fact he steps further back. “You will not speak to me in such a way, or I _will_ report to the captain. Back to your work.”

With that he’s gone as quick as he came, though Valjean sees the younger man’s eyes linger for a moment when he looks back before he rips them away, almost as if he suspects Valjean’s urge to try and escape again.

Something about the glint in the younger man’s eyes, like a challenge even if Javert himself doesn’t recognize it as such, spurs Valjean forward. If he can escape when they reach Port Royal, he swears he will.

* * *

Valjean is on deck when they reach port. It’s late, he thinks, perhaps nearing midnight. The sailing master’s calculations had been slightly off and the wind hadn’t been on their side, so they’d arrived later than expected. Once they’ve docked Valjean hears Captain Barnett speaking to Javert.

“It is too late to unload tonight,” he says. “All of the officers and some of the other men are going to lodgings in an inn not far from the docks, but you, Adams, Carver, and Erickson will stay here and keep watch. Surely you can manage a convict, some sugar, and a slave woman, I hope?”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, hands clasped behind his back at attention.

“We will return at sunrise and make preparations,” Captain Barnett says before turning to go, a line of other men following behind him.

Valjean watches for a half hour, and in the dark no one really seems to notice. Adams and Carver pull out their hidden bottle of rum almost as soon as the captain departs, and though Javert protests adamantly they continue drinking anyhow.

“The captain left us to watch the ship,” Javert insists. “You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Oh, calm down Javert,” Carver says. “We are not out at sea and we’re simply watching over a great deal of sugar, a convict, and a slave, neither of whom would be foolish enough to attempt escape.”

Javert tries again but gives up after a moment, huffing as he walks away, striding across the deck and to the other side, eyes gazing up at the stars, most of which are obscured by clouds. He turns around sharply after a moment as if he feels Valjean’s eyes on him.

“Do you have a question, 24601?” he asks, voice cutting, but the ire is dampened by his youth. Though if he stays on this path, Valjean suspects he might be rather intimidating when he’s older.

“No, _sir_ ,” Valjean says, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Javert’s eyes narrow.

“Go below to the cargo hold” he says. “I want you and the slave woman in the same place for now. Sleep. There’s no more work tonight, but we’ll need you in the morning.” He pauses, gazing again at Valjean as he had earlier as though suspecting something. “Erickson is guarding the hold, so don’t plan on attempting anything. You will not succeed.”

“Yes sir,” Valjean says, keeping the anger out of his voice this time to ease Javert’s suspicion.

Javert looks away after a moment, eyes going back to the sky as if searching for answers, though perhaps, Valjean thinks, he hoping they’ll tell him what questions to ask in the first place. Valjean make his way down to the hold, passing Erickson, who stands guard by the door. He’s slight, Valjean thinks, and easy to knock out. With Adams and Carver quickly falling prey to inebriation, Javert remains the most obvious threat. He enters the hold, Fantine looking up when he enters.

“You’re here again,” she says, and Valjean notices her hands are free again. “You don’t usually sleep here.”

“Javert told me to do so,” Valjean answers, eyes catching on a loose piece of rope on one of the sugar crates, broken from being tossed around by the rough waters over the past few days. “Most of the crew left to lodge at the inn near the docks, probably for the chance of some decent food, and Captain Barnett left Javert and three others to watch the ship.”

She surveys him for a moment, squinting.

“You’re planning something,” she finally says.

“No I’m not,” Valjean says, keeping his voice even, but he answers a bit too quickly. “Who removed your manacles?”

“The quartermaster,” she says. “Didn’t want marks on me when he’s about to deliver me to my new _master_ ,” she continues, fury in her voice, but she won’t be distracted. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Valjean answers.

“You’re going to try and escape,” she whispers, cognizant of Erickson just outside the door.

“I,” Valjean starts, irritated that both Javert and Fantine both seemed to guess his motives. He’s not used to people paying attention to him since he was arrested, let alone reading his movements.

“You are,” Fantine presses. “I’m coming with you.”

“I…no,” Valjean insists. “Managing myself is enough. I cannot be worried about someone else.”

“Worried?” Fantine questions, quirking an eyebrow.

“You will be in my way,” Valjean says, clearing his throat.

“I could make it difficult for you,” Fantine says after a pause. “I could shout, alert the guards.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might.”

Valjean sighs. “Fine. But if you slow me down…”

“I won’t,” she says. “Have you ever thought I might be a help as opposed to a hindrance?”

Valjean doesn’t answer but simply looks back, and she sighs, shaking her head.

“What is your strategy then?” she asks, cocking her head to the side.

“Two of the men are slowly on their way to inebriation,” he says. “So I don’t think they’ll be an issue. Erickson is small, I can…”

“Kill him?” Fantine asks, looking worried.

“No,” Valjean says, offended. “Knock him unconscious. Though none of these men would hesitate to kill either of us. Plenty of people like us have succumbed in holds just like this one.”

“I know,” Fantine says in a whisper. “But I’d rather you not.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Valjean emphasizes.

“That leaves Javert as the biggest problem,” Fantine says. “Do you think you can overtake him?”

“I think so,” Valjean says, feeling odd that he’s not doing this in solitude, but a part of him he wants to ignore is grateful. “Particularly if we have the element of surprise.”

It’s quiet between them for a moment and Fantine reaches for the locket she no longer possesses, hand falling down limply at her side, but her eyes are determined.

“Let’s go,” she says. “There’s no reason to wait.”

“They’ll be after us almost immediately,” Valjean warns. “You know that, I hope? This is risky.”

“I know,” Fantine says, looking back up at him. “But I have nothing left to lose. If I don’t get out of here I’ll never see my Cosette again. I might as well risk capture or death if it also hold the chance that we can escape and I’ll see her again.”

Valjean meets her eyes, feeling a strange desire to protect her, very similar to the one he’d felt the night he left his home in Barbados, eyes lingering on his sleeping sister and the touch of his infant nephew’s fingers on his. He shakes his head. Just look where _that_ had gotten him.

“Did you see if they left the gangplank down?” Fantine asks, walking toward the door.

“I…” Valjean starts. “I didn’t even consider that.”

“Well, if you’ll handle Javert, I’ll make sure the gangplank is down so we can get off the ship more easily.”

“Thank you,” Valjean says, impressed.

Fantine nods, and they open the door to the hold, encountering Erickson almost immediately, but as soon as the other man’s arm shoots out Valjean grabs it, twisting and knocking his head against the wood. Erickson falls to the floor groaning, not totally unconscious but it will do. Valjean starts up the stairs, stopping when he notices Fantine isn’t behind him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, seeing her pull Erickson’s pistol from his waist. “Were you not the one objecting to anyone getting killed earlier?”

“It’s not for that,” she insists. “Go.”

Valjean does, and they pause at the top of the stairs, taking in the situation on deck: the two other officers, in a decision Valjean finds lacking intelligence, are up in the crows nest with their bottle of rum. Javert alone remains, but he’s standing at the wheel halfway across the deck, his back to them.

“To the gangplank,” Valjean whispers. “I’ll handle Javert.”

Fantine goes, creeping across the deck without a sound, a feat only achievable by someone so slight. He hesitates a moment, knowing his own step will not be as soft, but vying to make it as quiet as possible. He walks across the deck, and he’s almost to the wheel when one of his feet lands on a particularly creaky board and Javert turns around, but he cannot take in the situation fast enough. Valjean’s fist connects with Javert’s stomach and such is Valjean’s own strength that the other man hits the deck, and Valjean notices a small glint of silver fall out.

Fantine’s locket.

“How dare you?” Javert says, once he catches his breath, the wind knocked out of him, hand going to his sword. “Stand down, immediately.”

Javert holds the tip of his sword to Valjean’s chest, and Valjean feels his catch. He didn’t even get off the ship. If he moves improperly he doesn’t think Javert will hesitate to strike.

Then, he hears the gun shot. Valjean doesn’t dare look behind him, but it does startle Javert for just the split second Valjean needs. He swings his leg, knocking Javert’s feet out from under him, and the younger man hits the deck again, his sword clattering to the wood. Without really even considering it, Valjean grabs the locket from the deck and runs, not looking behind him. He reaches the gangplank, and Fantine is there waiting. They run down it and then across the dock, dashing into the darkness and darting behind a building so they’re out of sight for a moment.

“You fired the gun,” Valjean says, almost smiling but not quite daring.

“Just into the air,” Fantine says. “I saw Javert pointing his sword at you, and I thought a distraction might help. See?” she says, and she does smile. “I told you I might be helpful.”

Valjean doesn’t answer but instead opens his hand, revealing the locket. Fantine’s eyes widen, and without warning there are grateful tears glistening in them.

“My locket,” she breathes. “I…thank you.”

“It fell out of Javert’s pocket,” Valjean grumbles, looking away, but feeling that warmth again. “Come on, we need to get further away. Let’s go.”

With one look behind them, the two of them run into the darkness again, with no inkling of what might lie ahead.

* * *

Fantine’s lungs burn, but she knows they can’t stop running.

“Here,” Valjean says, hand grasping her arm and pulling her into a hidden grove of palm trees that form a circle in the sand, obscuring them from view.

Fantine leans against one of the trees, breathing in deep, desperate for proper air.

“Are they going to find us?” she asks after a moment, catching Valjean’s eyes.

He looks back, holding her gaze, but she can’t read his expression.

“I don’t know,” he says, honest. “I have not been successful before.”

“You’ve tried this before?” she asks, surprised. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Well I wasn’t successful, and I was a bit preoccupied with your threat to shout if I didn’t allow you to come with me,” Valjean says, begrudging, though there’s a hint of admiration in his tone he wouldn’t admit to.

“That’s why you got the years added on to your sentence,” she says, realizing the truth. “That’s why you were put on the ship. They thought it would be more difficult for you to escape.”

“Yes,” Valjean says, turning away from her so she doesn’t see the pain in his eyes, but only hears the fury in his tone. “Let’s go. Their footsteps have faded.”

They start running again, going up the hill and toward a house that is truly a mansion on the top of the hill, hiding behind a grouping of bushes by the side as yet another line of officers run by, this time wearing naval uniforms.

“They called in the navy?” Fantine asks, breathless. “Surely they have better things to do?”

“Not in the middle of the night when a convict and a piece of their precious cargo is missing,” Valjean says, and Fantine sees him digging his fingernails into his palms, feeling his emotions matched in the pit of her own stomach like a ball of fire. Fantine closes her eyes, thinking of Cosette and the way her soft little curls brushed against her cheek as she held her, suddenly filled with a sense of certainty.

“We’re going to get out of here,” she says softly in Valjean’s ear. “We will.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, but he doesn’t look back, his eyes too busy searching for East India and Naval officers. “You…”

The rest of his response is cut off when the front door opens, and they hear a woman’s voice.

“Is someone out there?” the voice asks, and Fantine sees a woman a handful of years older than herself emerge out into the drive, looking around her for the source of the sound they must have made. At first it looks like she might give up, but due to Valjean’s size the bushes rustle ever so slightly, and she turns, narrowing her eyes in confusion.

 _That’s it_ , Fantine thinks. They’ll be caught for certain now when this woman lets out the inevitable scream Fantine waits for. She closes her eyes in anticipation.

Only the sound she expects doesn’t come.

“Come inside,” the woman says, resolve in her expression as she looks at them.

“So you can call the guards?” Valjean answers, a scoff in his voice. “I don’t think so.”

“Just come inside,” the woman insists, frustrated. “They’ll be back this way again, I can promise you.”

Fantine doesn’t like it but she steps forward first anyway, distrustful but also somehow still drawn. There’s something in this woman’s eyes, as light as her own are dark, something that speaks to a kindred feeling on some level even if they couldn’t be more different.

“Fantine,” Valjean tries, but Fantine spins on her heel.

“What choice do we have?” she asks him, and he’s obviously taken aback at her abruptness. “Either come inside or get caught out here on your own. We don’t have anything to lose.”

At this Valjean has no choice but to follow, but Fantine can sense he thinks her too trusting. The mysterious woman leads them inside, closing the door and locking it behind her and ushering them to a back parlor, drawing all the curtains so they cover the windows.

“Why did you do this?” Fantine asks, turning to the woman. “How can we trust you?”

“I heard word that a convict and a slave escaped at the docks,” the woman answers.

“And that’s reason enough?” Fantine presses. “For a woman like you?”

“Do I need a reason?” the woman asks.

“A woman like you?” Valjean repeats, chiming in. “Yes.” He points up to the crest on the wall, emblazoned with the family name.

_Enjolras._

“I know that name,” Valjean continues, stepping toward the woman, who looks nervous but still kind. “Michel Enjolras is an East India captain, the commander of my ship spoke disdainfully of him.” He doesn’t move forward, but he does stand up straighter, looking even taller than before, and Fantine notices the woman step back, feeling a flare of irritation in the pit of her stomach.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Fantine says, annoyed. Even if Valjean is trying to make use of his height she knows he wouldn’t hurt this woman, and it angers her that the woman fears him. It isn’t the first time she’s seen a white woman step away from a black man even if there was no indication he would hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says, shaking her head as if trying to focus and brush off the instincts that society has ingrained into her even if she isn’t aware that’s what she’s doing, and Fantine does hear the sincerity in her voice. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I simply…I just wanted to help, but I’m afraid I’m figuring this out as I go along.”

She meets first Valjean’s and then Fantine’s eyes in apology and Fantine nods, meaning for her to continue.

“Did you mean Captain Barnett?” the woman asks, directing her question to Valjean.

“I did,” Valjean says, expression softening in the face of the woman’s honesty.  

“I thought so. He and Michel don’t agree, usually. There’s a bit of a rivalry. Michel doesn’t agree with his disciplinary tactics or the way he runs his ship. Barnett feels he should hold the position my husband does. So I’m not surprised you heard him talking about Michel.”

“Where is your husband?” Valjean asks, though through the anger Fantine hears a sliver of fear, obviously worried they’ve been tricked, but still hoping they can trust this woman.

“At sea,” the woman answers. “For another week and accompanied by my young son, Rene. He certainly won’t be bursting in tonight. The only other person who lives in house is my housekeeper, and she’s gone to bed. Besides that, she would keep my secrets.”

“It still doesn’t answer the question of why,” Fantine says, her hand reaching up to cover the locket unconsciously as if protecting it against a threat she’s not sure exists.

The woman notices, her eyes lingering on the locket, her own hand reaching for a small gold bracelet she wears on her right arm.

“I simply wanted to help,” she says again. “I understand if you don’t trust me. You don’t have any reason to. But I want to do what I can. I…I have never agreed with the slave trade, with a lot of the ways our society works. I’m Astra.” She puts out her hand, tentative, and Fantine sees secrets in her eyes.

Fantine puts her hand out in return, and finds Astra’s handshake firm.

“Fantine,” she says. “And this is…”

“Valjean,” Valjean answers, taking some of the malice out of his voice but still understandably holding a defensive stance.

“You have a son,” Fantine says, still holding tight to the locket.

“Yes,” Astra answers. “He’s six, and in love with sailing, but I miss him when he’s gone. You have a child?”

“How did you know?”

“You were grasping onto that locket,” Astra answers. “I just assumed.”

“My daughter,” Fantine answers, feeling her shoulders relax just slightly. “Cosette. But I’m afraid I’ve been separated from her. That’s the reason I wanted to escape from the ship, so that I could find her.”

“I cannot imagine being ripped from my child,” Astra says, and again Fantine is struck once more by an unexplainable similarity of spirt she feels with this woman she just met, this woman who could not be more outwardly different. “It is not right that you should be ripped from yours. I’m so sorry.”

Fantine is about to answer when there’s a loud knock at the door.

“Stay here,” Astra says. “Get on the ground, just in case. I’ll be back.”

Both Fantine and Valjean do as she asks, and she shuts the door firmly behind her.

“She could very easily turn us in,” Valjean whispers, and Fantine is surprised to see the vulnerability in his eyes when she turns to look at him.

“She could,” Fantine answers. “But I don’t think she will.”

They hear Astra open the front door, the voice of a man on the other side.

“Madame Enjolras,” the man says. “My apologies for disturbing you at such an hour, but I saw your candles still lit in the window and I wanted to check and see if you’d laid eyes on the convict and the slave woman who escaped this evening from an East India ship.”

“I haven’t,” Astra answers, voice cool but even. “Though I’d heard word of the escape from one of my neighbors. But I will alert you if I do.”

“Thank you Madam,” the man says, clearly not suspecting her. “I appreciate it. Give Captain Enjolras my regards when he arrives home.”

“I certainly will,” Astra says, and Fantine hears the insincere smile she places on her face. “Goodnight.”

There’s a murmured goodnight from the officer and the door closes again. There’s a pause as if Astra’s waiting to make sure the officer is gone for certain, then they hear her steps cross the hall and back toward the room where they’re hiding.

“That should keep them away from here for the night,” she says when she opens the door. “Though I’ll still keep the curtains closed. If you would like you can stay here tonight and I will try and get you passage out tomorrow.”

“Passage for a convict and a slave?” Valjean asks, but Fantine notes just how much his tone has changed now that Astra sent the guard away, and she senses that underneath the layers of anger, Valjean might be a very different person. But Fantine would be lying if she didn’t share his anger, though as much as she wishes she could build walls around herself like he does, part of her still desperately wants to trust. Tholomyes appears like a hazy memory in her mind, her stomach twisting as she thinks of him and the betrayal and cruelty that still hasn’t healed. She’d never suspected a man with his smile capable of the things he’d done, but here she was. If she’s honest with herself, even when she was happiest with Tholomyes there was always something tugging at the back of her mind that said _you are not enough. Something isn’t right_. But she’d ignored it in the face of his _I love you_ , and looking back on it, she doesn’t know how she could have done anything else. She couldn’t have known, and, she reminds herself, Cosette wouldn’t exist if not for her love affair with Tholomyes. Even if she’s separated from Cosette, her child’s eyes and the love they inspire never disappear from her mind.

“Being the wife of a prominent East India captain gives one insight into the various ships that come in and out of Port Royal,” Astra says. “And who they might help. If my husband disapproves, well. The more likely they might be to help. There’s a privateer I know that smuggles slaves out when he can be convinced, and helps them get to a man called Myriel. Apparently he finds slaves passage back to their homelands, if he can, or otherwise helps them find lives here.”

“The wife of an East India captain is essentially telling us she’ll help us seek help from a pirate?” Valjean asks, bewildered.

“Sometimes people outside the law are sometimes more moral than those operating inside it,” she says. She looks down at the floor as if contemplating it, then back up at them. “I am often trapped here,” she continues. “Unable, by warrant of my station, to change the things I’d like to. Even within my own family. But I can do this.”

“Why are you risking this?” Fantine asks, studying Astra’s face.

“It is not nearly the same risk for me as the risk you took when you decided to run,” Astra says. “I am not half so brave as either of you. Even if the worst happened and my husband or my father found out, well. It wouldn’t be pleasant but they’d hardly send me to jail. I…” she stops for a moment, unsure. “I have always known material comfort. I have not suffered physically, and I have not suffered as either of you have, I do not know what that is like. I would never claim to say I do. But I do know something, at least, of not being accepted, of being ripped away from something. My cage is gilded, that is certainly true. But it is still a cage, on some days.”

She smiles, directing it at Fantine, but it’s filled with the same kind of sadness Fantine feels in the pit of her stomach when she thinks of missing Cosette.

“Thank you,” Valjean says after a pause, meeting Astra’s eyes for a moment.

“You’re welcome,” Astra says. “We’ll need to be up before sundown, but you should at least get a few hours of sleep.”

Fantine and Valjean agree, and Astra leads them upstairs to a guest room with two beds. Much to her surprise, Valjean falls asleep almost immediately as if he hasn’t slept in years, though even in sleep his stance is such that he looks as if he could spring up in defense of himself at a moment’s notice. Fantine lays in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking how strange this situation is, hearing a creak in the floor as Astra passes by headed down the hallway. Unable to rest her mind enough to sleep, Fantine climbs quietly out of bed, going out into the hallway, drawn toward the door of the first room at the top of the stairs where the door is ajar. She looks inside, eyes catching on the blue walls and the paintings of the sea on the wall. Astra sits on the edge of the bed, holding one of the blankets in her hands. She looks over, jumping when she sees Fantine watching her.

“I’m sorry,” Fantine murmurs. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s all right,” Astra answers. “If I were you I wouldn’t be sleeping either. I can only imagine what you might feel right now.”

“You miss your son?” Fantine asks, stepping just inside the door.

Astra nods. “He’s only gone for two weeks, I’ll see him soon,” she says, fingers trailing over the edge of the blanket. “But still, I miss him. It’s silly I suppose, in the face of what you’re going through.”

Fantine shakes her head. “I understand. Sometimes, when I…” she stops, swallowing back a wave of emotion. “When I still had Cosette it felt like I missed her even when I was asleep.”

Astra smiles, a true one that makes the light reach her eyes. “Rene chases away all of my loneliness,” she says. “He’s so serious, for his age, but so enthusiastic and imaginative at the same time. So full of life.” She stops, considering Fantine a moment. “I hope you find your daughter again. I suspect your determination will lead you to her.”

“I hope so,” Fantine says, offering her own smile. “I really do. I…I’m sorry I was harsh with you earlier.”

“No,” Astra says, waving a hand. “I understand. You had no reason to trust me. You had every reason not to, in fact.”

“That’s a beautiful bracelet,” Fantine says, gesturing to the small golden band around Astra’s wrist.

“Thank you,” Astra says, gazing at it for a moment, fingers lingering on the clasp.

“It matters to you like this locket matters to me,” Fantine says, knowing she’s being forward, but Astra doesn’t seem to mind. In fact she seems grateful for the conversation, and with another woman in particular, no matter how vastly different their backgrounds.

“It was a gift from someone I loved,” Astra says, voice growing soft, warmth edging in. “Almost a parting gift. I haven’t seen them since.”

Fantine smiles but doesn’t press, noting that Astra doesn’t say she hasn’t seen _him_ since, but she senses that this woman confiding even this amount is no small matters.

“I never put much stock in physical items,” Fantine says. “The way I grew up, I couldn’t afford to. But this locket, simple as it is, well. It’s important to me.”

“It reminds you of your daughter,” Astra says, smiling again. “I think that’s completely understandable. My son, he likes to make small trinkets out of things he finds around the island, and I keep them all in a drawer in my armoire. My husband thinks it odd since they’re things like small stones or seashells, but I don’t.”

“Is your husband close with your son?”

“He is,” Astra answers. “Rene loves sailing and so does Michel, so it’s a natural kinship. Michel is…a good man, but I fear he doesn’t fully understand Rene’s spirit. It is easy now, when he’s a child, but I fear for the future, especially with my father…” she shakes her head, looking back up at Fantine. “I apologize. I’m going on.”

“It’s all right,” Fantine says. “I don’t mind. Are you...do you like your husband?”

“He is kind to me,” Astra says, non-committal. “We are happy, sometimes. He cares about me, and I him.”

 _But you are not in love_ , Fantine thinks to herself, sensing tension in Astra about things that perhaps have not yet come to pass, but that she worries will.

“If I might ask,” Astra says, unsure. “Why were you on the East India ship by yourself? I…you don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t mind,” Fantine repeats. “They removed me from the sugar plantation I was working on,” she says. “They were sending me to work in a house somewhere in Port Royal. But then I realized Valjean was going to make an escape and I…convinced him to take me with him.”

At this, Astra grins.

“Found a way to be persuasive?” she asks.

“Exactly,” Fantine says with a laugh. “He was on the ship because he stole to feed his family. Not children of his own, but nieces and nephews. But then he tried to escape and…”

“They added time onto his sentence,” Astra says, finishing her sentence. She gazes at Fantine, and Fantine almost looks away, but finds she cannot. Astra’s gaze is intense, and Fantine finds herself wishing life would allow her a friendship with this woman for reasons she cannot entirely explain. “I’m sorry for everything you’re going through,” Astra whispers.

“Thank you,” Fantine says, struck by the emotion in Astra’s voice, and feeling her own bubble up in her chest. “Thank you, for your help.”

Astra nods, clearing her throat. “We should sleep. We’ll have to be up early.”

“Yes,” Fantine says. “We will.”

She bids Astra goodnight and goes back to her bed, returning to find Valjean still asleep, but he’s curled up tightly, which makes for an odd sight given his height and his broadness. He’s incredibly frustrating, but still the sight makes her smile, and she climbs into bed, finally falling asleep after a few minutes, thoughts of Cosette dancing in her dreams.

Fantine feels as if she’s only been asleep a few minutes when she hears Valjean’s voice, calling her awake.

“Madame Enjolras says it’s time to go,” he says, though he sounds less annoyed at her than he did yesterday. “Get dressed.”

She sits up, the adrenaline pumping through her making her almost instantly awake. She’d slept in her clothes, so all she has to do is slip on her worn shoes and she’s ready. They meet Astra downstairs, and before they can even speak she presses a small pile of English pounds into their hands.

“You’ll need this,” she says, speaking in a whisper as if afraid somehow the people looking for them will hear her beyond the walls of her house.

To Fantine’s surprise, Valjean doesn’t argue, but quietly puts the money into his pocket, and Fantine into hers. There’s a conflict of some kind as Valjean looks at Astra, but Fantine doesn’t think she could give it a name.

“Captain Barlow’s ship is at the end of the docks, so we’ll have to go a little further than I’d like,” Astra says, handing each of them a cloak. “Wear these, and keep close.”

Both Valjean and Fantine do as asked, and after a few moments they’re out the door, keeping in close step with Astra. At first they encounter nothing, but after a few minutes a small patrol of Naval officers walk past and Astra pulls them into the same small grove of palm trees from last night, hiding them from view, though they’re mostly obscured in the dark.

“We keep ending up in this area of trees,” Valjean murmurs.

“We were here last night,” Fantine clarifies, and Astra nods, then gestures them back out once it’s clear the officers have gone. As they approach the docks and the walkway they slow their pace as Astra catches the eye of the young sailor on board, who seems to understand what she wants the moment he lays eyes on Fantine and Valjean, nodding at them to board.

“Might I speak to Captain Barlow?” Astra asks. “It’s rather urgent.”

“He just arrived Madam,” the sailor says. “He went to check something below, but I’ll take you there. Less likely that your friends will be seen.”

They follow the man down the slippery steps, and the sailor knocks on the door to what appears to be the captain’s cabin. They hear Captain Barlow’s voice tell them to enter, but when he looks up he starts, surprised at finding his sailor accompanied.

“Madame Enjolras,” he says, looking at Astra in confusion. “I…did not expect to see a woman of your station on my humble ship.”

“I’m seeking passage out for my…friends,” she says. “I was hoping you’d be the right choice.”

He gazes at her, and for a moment they look to be having a conversation all in expressions.

“Your husband is not home?” he asks, eyes darting from her to Fantine and Valjean, then back to her.

“No,” she says. “He will not be home for another week, at least.”

“And who are your friends?”

“Two escaped slaves,” Astra says, technically lying, but Fantine thinks that Valjean’s convict labor is only a few shades different from her own enslavement, and people often shy at the mention of helping prisoners, no matter what they’re imprisoned for. Even if they released him years down the road, he still wouldn’t truly have been free.

“Or perhaps the escaped slave and the convict that escaped from the East India ship when it made port last night?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Word travels fast.”

For all her poise, Fantine sees Astra blush. Her own heart beats in her chest, desperate for this man to help, desperate to get out of here, desperate to find her Cosette.

“They just need passage out of Port Royal,” Astra presses. “I was told about a man named Myriel, that helps slaves, and that you sometimes smuggle the slaves you help escape to him.”

“Myriel is elusive. Odd, like his unique brand of piracy,” Captain Barlow responds. “But when I can, yes, I do. You are well informed.”

“My husband knows most all the ships that come in and out of Port Royal,” she answers, almost in challenge. “East India knows there are privateers who do what you do. They just cannot put their finger on which one of you it is. Lieutenant Arthur Combeferre, my husband’s friend, told me about the rumors of Myriel.”

 _Combeferre_ , Fantine thinks. She knows that name. Her friend Chantal back on Haiti, had been in love with a man named Combeferre. They’d had a son together, who’d been a small child when Tholomyes had Fantine sold into slavery.

Captain Barlow gazes at Astra again, then at Fantine and Valjean in turn, remaining silent, a decision appearing in his eyes and Fantine feels relief flood her.

“All right,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “But stay below deck. They’ll be looking for you, still. I have to go tend to some things on deck.”

Without another word he gestures at his sailor to follow him, leaving the three of them alone.

“Thank you,” Fantine says, daring to reach out and clasp Astra’s hand, who squeezes it back. “I…you know Arthur Combeferre?” she asks.

“I do,” Astra says. “He’s my husband’s dearest friend, his second in command. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him once, heard about him more,” Fantine says. “My friend Chantal, she had a child with him, a sweet little boy a bit older than my Cosette. Chantal loved Arthur very much, as I recall.”

Astra nods. “Arthur speaks of her often. There’s even talk of bringing little Frantz to live here, though I’m not sure when that will come to pass. You should be safe now,” Astra continues, looking from Fantine to Valjean and smiling. For the first time since she’s met him, the tiniest smile appears on Valjean’s face in return, and from how awkward it looks Fantine suspects it’s the first time he’s smiled in a very long time. It’s gone as quick as it came, but part of it still rests in his eyes. Even if he can’t thank her aloud, Valjean’s expression does as much.

“I have to go,” Astra says, letting go of Fantine’s hand. “But I hope…I hope you find security out there. And I hope you find your daughter,” she says, looking again at Fantine. “And I think you should stay together, if I might offer my opinion. It’s safer to have a companion. To have a friend.”

Fantine feels Valjean’s eyes on her, and she turns, quirking one eyebrow. He looks back, slightly bewildered, but for just a moment, Fantine swears she sees a twinkle in his eyes. Astra smiles at them one last time, and with that she’s gone, and Fantine has an odd tugging feeling deep down as if somehow, this won’t be the last time she sees Astra Enjolras.

* * *

**Four Weeks Later. Barbados.**

"Myriel's ship is here," Captain Barlow, says, exhaustion seeping into his voice. "Help us dock if you would, Valjean? Then we can go speak to him. He meets with people about two miles from here in a secluded spot near an abandoned general store where there are less prying eyes."

Valjean remembers the spot, so he doesn’t need to ask questions.

“He’s…” Valjean lowers his voice. “He’s a pirate. How does he dock here without notice?”

“I don’t consider myself an expert in the goings on of pirates,” Captain Barlow says. “But some pirates keep a store of flags on board, you see. For different situations. They only hoist the black flag when they’re going to attack. And Myriel is elusive. There’s a reason he hasn’t been captured or even nearly captured.” He pauses, straightening his shoulders. “Don’t go thinking I consort with just any pirate. Myriel and his ilk do good work.”

Valjean nods, going to assist some of the men with the securing the sails. He watches Fantine emerge from below with some of the smaller boxes of textiles, helping unload the ship so they don't look suspicious. Captain Barlow is still a privateer and a merchant, and upholding that reputation is even more important in light of his more illegal, though decidedly moral activities.  Valjean doesn't blame him for looking so tired, the purple bags under his eyes more denounced than when Valjean and Fantine boarded the ship a month ago. When they'd made port in the Caymans to pick up the shipment of textiles word had spread of a mixed crew of East India and Naval sailors boarding ships near the coastline of Jamaica in search of the missing convict and slave, though they were not going any further than that. To his credit Captain Barlow kept them on, bidding them to hide in the hold until the danger passed, and made sail to get further away earlier than planned.

Valjean finishes his work, breathing in and looking out at the island where he grew up, the island where he was arrested and the island where he said goodbye to his family. He has no idea if they're even here anymore, no idea if they're alive or dead. 

"Captain Barlow?" he asks as the captain passes. "I understand it's a risk, but I...I grew up here in Barbados. And I wanted to see if perhaps my family was still here." 

"You can't stay here even if they are," the captain presses. "If they continue looking for you this would be the first place they would search."

"I know," Valjean says, gruff. "I simply wanted to know if they were all right."

Captain Barlow sighs, but there is compassion in his eyes. "Make it quick," he says. “Meet me there when you’re done, but if you get caught I’m afraid it goes beyond the realm of my assistance. Though I do not suspect they would come here so quickly.”

Valjean nods, noticing Fantine watching them from across the deck. As soon as he makes to exit the ship she follows, and he's frustrated that only part of him finds her company unwelcome. 

"Where are you going?" she asks, though her expression indicates she already knows. "To look for your family?"

"Yes," he says. "But you should stay here. It's safer."

"You're just as in danger if you're caught," she insists. "Let me come."

Valjean looks over at her, warmth pooling in her dark brown eyes. He's extremely hesitant to admit it, but over the past few weeks he's begrudgingly come to enjoy her company, and without the slavery and long hours of convict labor on the East India, he finds he also enjoys sailing far more than he realized for someone who grew up on an island. With the taste of freedom on his lips, he appreciates the breeze ruffling through his hair, the smell of salty air. The sea, he thinks, speaks to a part of his soul he didn't even think existed anymore, as if it slowly heals the wounds life has caused him.

"I don't need you to come with me," he says, continuing his stride. 

"I didn't say you needed me," Fantine says, walking faster to keep up with him. "You've made it clear you don't need anyone. But I thought you might like the company anyway."

"Fine," he says, exiting the ship with her still on his heels as if he had a choice in the matter at all.

"You like me more than you let on," she says. 

"You are less frustrating than initially anticipated," he replies. 

But when Fantine smiles, he feels his own lips quirk upward. They walk in silence across the island, Valjean's footsteps tracing the path home from memory, though he notices along the way that some of the small huts he remembers are no longer there, some of the familiar palm trees broken. His family lived near the docks, and he remembers taking his small nieces and nephews to play in the surf in one of his rare spare moments when he wasn’t working.

“Was there a hurricane here?” Fantine asks, eyes flitting over the broken trees and obviously missing homes.

“I don’t know,” Valjean says, feeling uneasy.

The feeling intensifies when he goes to the spot where his family’s home should have been, and nothing is there. There are pieces of splintered wood, palm fronds, and nothing else.

“Its…” he says, stumbling over his words as a torrent of utterly unwelcome emotion crashes over him.

 _They could have left,_ he tells himself. _They could have gone somewhere different._

“Are you looking for the family that lived here?” he hears a woman’s voice ask.

“Yes,” Valjean says, turning to the woman, who he sees now is elderly and white-haired, vaguely recognizing her as a neighbor from nearby. “My sister Joliette Valjean and her husband Henri Feuilly, they had…”

“I’m afraid they’re gone. Have been for three years now,” She pauses, gazing at his face. “You used to live here too, didn’t you? But I haven’t seen you in at least eight years.”

“Gone?” Valjean asks, ignoring her question. “What do you mean? Where did they go?” His heart races in his chest, and he suspects just from her expression and the sick sense of foreboding that he already knows the answer.

“Two of the children died from disease before the hurricane,” she says, and Valjean feels his stomach sinking lower and lower. “Then the hurricane came, and I’m afraid to say the rest of them perished. A lot of people around this area did, because it’s so close to shore. The youngest survived.”

“Jahni,” Valjean whispers, suddenly feeling anger swoop through his ever sinking stomach, hot and irrationally directed at the woman in front of him. “What happened to him?” he asks, raising his voice.

“I don’t know,” the woman replies, looking afraid, eyes darting toward Fantine.

“You have to know!” Valjean shouts, stepping toward her. “One boy out of an entire family survives and you don’t know what happened?”

“Valjean!” Fantine says, firm. “It’s not this woman’s fault. Just…let’s go, all right?”

She places her hand on his arm, and despite the anger still pulsing through him he responds, giving into her plea. They walk for a few minutes and Valjean pulls his arm away, feeling the foreign pricking of tears at the edges of his eyes. He cannot even recall the last time he cried, and yet now not only are they pooling in his eyes, they are spilling down his cheeks, shards of sobs making their way out of his mouth no matter how he tries preventing them. He thinks of his sister’s smile, her husband’s jovial laughter, his nephew grasping his finger just before he left the house, the last time he would ever see his family even if he didn’t know it.

_The only one to survive._

He sees the hunger in his family’s faces so clearly as if someone painted a portrait before his eyes, remembers the ache it caused in the center of his chest, the determination he felt to erase it so that they’d never be hungry again. He remembers kicking Javert’s feet out from under him, remembers Astra Enjolras’ sad smile, the secrets in her eyes mixed with desperation and bolstering the courage to find them a way out. Why had she been so kind? What had driven her to it? Why was Fantine so eager to befriend him? Why had Captain Barlow agreed to help them? He cannot make sense of these acts of kindness that seem as blazing lights in the darkness that enshrouds his life.

“Valjean,” Fantine says, softer now. “We have to go to the back of the island. To meet Myriel.”

“I…” Valjean tries, pushing her hand off his arm and turning away from her, going to lean on a palm tree, his breaths shallow. His entire body throbs, pulsating with pain from the sheer amount of emotion bursting forth, emotion he buried long ago that he can no longer keep at bay.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” she says, and even in his distress he hears the sincerity in her words. She refrains from touching him again, and she stands back a bit, giving him space.

Valjean breathes in, controlling his tears, but he cannot look over at her.

“We can find him,” she finally says after a moment. “Just like we can find my Cosette.”

“You have an idea where she might be,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I have no idea where Jahni is. He could be anywhere. He could dead.”

“He’s not,” Fantine says.

“You don’t know that,” he snaps, even though she doesn’t deserve it

“I don’t,” she says, and he hears tears in her voice now. “But I will hope until we’re proven otherwise, just like I do with Cosette. I cannot do anything else. Just…we can help each other, if we try. Neither of us has anyone except these children we’re looking for, neither of us trusts easily. But we’ve been put together by coincidence or God or the universe or whatever you’d like to call it. And I…I’d rather not do this alone.”

He wipes his eyes again, turning from the tree and looking at her, unable to resist the glimmer of faith in her eyes. He smiles just enough to draw a similar one out of her, the ache still pounding through his body. He loved his family dearly, but he scarcely had time for friends in his early life, and certainly not since his arrest. Now, he thinks, perhaps he’s made his first one. He opens his mouth to respond when they hear footsteps behind them, both of them jumping in alarm.

“Pardon,” the approaching man says, and Valjean relaxes when he realizes the man is not dressed in a uniform. He’s of African descent, Valjean surmises, donning simple clothing, though he does wear a significant amount of jewelry, the most notable a sizeable golden cross, the sun glinting off the edges. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He lowers his voice, meeting their eyes. “Are you the two who were sailing with Captain Barlow? He told me you’d gone this way.”

“Yes,” Valjean answers, struck by this man for reasons he cannot explain to himself.

“I’m Captain Myriel,” he says, reaching out his hand to shake both of theirs.

“Your reputation claims a lot of mystery,” Valjean says.

“I’ve found it’s best that way,” Myriel answers, but his smile is genuine. “But Captain Barlow told me about the two of you and your situations. I’d like to help.”

“Why?” Valjean asks, unable to help his suspicion despite what he’s heard of the man. “Why do you do this?”

“I was a slave, once,” Myriel says. “Separated from my mother when I was small.”  He doesn’t elaborate, looking at Fantine, empathy in his eyes. “Somewhat like you and your daughter. Where is she?”

“Haiti,” Fantine answers. “At least for now.”

He nods, gazing at Fantine a moment before his eyes dart back to Valjean. Something in his eyes tells Valjean that Myriel knows something has happened, but he doesn’t press him for details just yet. If anything, Valjean is certain his red-rimmed eyes tell at least part of the story.

“Normally I take runaways where they’d like to go,” Myriel says. “But as it happens I have a few positions open on my crew, if you’re willing.”

“To be pirates? Valjean questions, skeptical.

“A far more democratic way of life than anything you’ve experienced so far,” Myriel says, an unexpected roguish grin on the face of a man whose hair grays at the temples, yet his demeanor calms Valjean even still. “More accepting. You don’t find East India or the Navy voting for their leaders or giving out injury payments to their sailors.”

“You accept women on your crew?” Fantine asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Don’t most sailors call that bad luck?”

Myriel laughs, and the sound warms Valjean, chasing away some of the ache, though it certainly doesn’t evaporate.

“Most sailors are too superstitious for their own good,” he replies.

“My first priority is finding my daughter,” Fantine says.

“I can help you,” Myriel says, “My crew is experienced in these matters. It’s what we’ve dedicated ourselves to.”

“What do you say, Valjean?” Fantine asks, turning to him, and he remembers her words from earlier about having a companion.

Valjean looks at her, seeing her eagerness, seeing the reflection of his sister in her eyes. He knows that without Fantine, he’d never have gotten off the East India ship. Despite himself, he feels affection for her rooting in his heart. He looks back in the direction of where his family’s house once stood, no trace of it remaining, then looks forward again.

“All right,” he says.  

_I have nowhere else to go._

They start making their way back toward the ships as night falls, and Fantine walks a bit ahead on the shoreline, looking lighter on her feet than Valjean’s seen her since they met. Myriel walks beside him, and Valjean feels the older man’s eyes on him.

“You lost your family,” Myriel says, and it’s not a question.

“All but one. My nephew. Most were killed in a hurricane, so I learned,” Valjean says, surprised at how the words come spilling out his mouth without restraint. “I was arrested stealing to feed them.”

“We can find your nephew,” Myriel says.

“That’s what Fantine said,” Valjean answers, looking over.

“I cannot promise,” Myriel says. “I wouldn’t do you that disservice. But I will do everything in my power to help you find him.”

Valjean pauses, feeling that familiar wave of emotions that’s become familiar over the past month.

“Why?” he asks, hearing the crack in his voice. “Why do you want to help me? Fantine? There are so many people out there.”

“Yes,” Myriel answers, and Valjean hears the thread of melancholy through his voice. “But the two of you are here right now, in front of me. I could not turn away from that.”

At those words, Valjean feels tears fill his eyes again, and he cannot stop them, though they are quiet this time, different from the sobs that escaped him earlier. Myriel doesn’t embarrass him by speaking, but instead reaches out and clasps his shoulder for a moment, reminding Valjean of the father who died when he was a child. There it is again, that feeling of safety even when he should feel anything but safe.

He looks up at the horizon, watching the sun sinking below it, red bleeding into the space off in the distance where the sky meets the land. He feels devastated. He feels as if his heart might burst from the confusing mix of feeling welling up within him. But for the first time in years, he also feels hope.


	7. Book I (Beginnings): Section 2, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantine and Valjean integrate into Myriel's crew, learning the ropes of piracy. With Myriel's help they follow the trail to Cosette, reuniting mother and daughter. When the sun sets on Myriel's time, Valjean is voted the new captain, and sets his sights on the East India Trading Company, knowing he'll draw the ire of the English Navy, never expecting that mission to unite him with the nephew he thought surely lost. 
> 
> (Introducing Cosette and Feuilly!)

**Book I (Beginnings): Part 2, Section 2**

**The Caribbean Sea near the Cayman Islands. October 1695.**

Fantine feels anxiety form a knot in her stomach as she watches clouds cover the sun, tinging the sky gray. For all her life spent near the water she hasn’t actually spent a great deal of time sailing until recently. Myriel says she has a knack for it, but they’ve yet to encounter a bad storm, and she knows well enough how those can end just from experiencing hurricanes on land. She saw men leave Haiti and never return, fear-filled whispers spreading around the island about how they’d lost their lives in storms and sunk into the ocean’s depths as though they’d never existed. Fantine thinks it a great irony that although water is a source of life, it can also kill you.

“It won’t be too strong,” she hears Madame Baptistine, Myriel’s sister, say. “Believe me, I’ve seen bad storms.”

Fantine smiles, feeling her nerves ease a bit at the kindness in the older woman’s voice. She’d been reunited with Myriel several years ago after years of him searching for her, Fantine knows, both born in slavery and then separated later on. Along with her friend Madame Magloire they keep the ship’s books, doling out injury payments, and when called for, funeral payments. They also make work of mending the sailors’ clothing. She’s also learned a thing or two from the women about how the ship runs, and much to Valjean's chagrin, she's learned about making explosives from some of the sailors. Valjean looks concerned every time he overhears her learning about them, and she laughs, telling him it will come in handy one day.

“I’ve just never been at sea during a bad storm of any kind,” Fantine answers. She’s also bonded with Baptistine over their unfortunate shared experience of slavery, and spends a great deal of time sitting on the deck at night talking with her. “I’ve only heard terrible stories.”

“It will be more irritating than anything,” Baptistine answers. “But I’ve been in bad storms where we lost sailors. This looks relatively mild, and the _Cierge_ is in good shape. She’s held steady through much, much worse.”

Fantine falls quiet for a moment, feeling Baptistine’s eyes on her.

“You’re worried about your daughter?” she asks, concern in her voice.

“I just hadn’t thought the Thenardiers would have moved from Haiti,” Fantine says, feeling her stomach sink. “From what I knew of them they’d lived there for years.”

“Perhaps better…opportunities arose somewhere else in the region,” Baptistine says, a layer of bitterness in her voice. “They make their living selling free people into slavery, after all. But we’re on their trail, dear. We’ll find your Cosette. My brother won’t rest until he helps you find her, I can assure you of that.”

Fantine nods, squeezing Baptistine’s hand and watching as one of the sailors, a kindly middle-aged man named Fauchelevent, reaches up to mend some of the rigging so the oncoming wind doesn’t cause it to snap. Fantine jumps as the rough waters start tossing the ship abruptly, water smacking against the side and up over the rail, flooding onto the deck. Before she even realizes what’s happening Fauchelevent slips on the slick wood, another wave crashing over the side as he loses his hold on the rigging and plummets over the side.

“Fauchelevent!” one of the men shouts, frantic. “He can’t swim!”

Valjean rushes past them in a blur, throwing off his jacket and diving over the side of the ship and into the turbulent, tossing waters.

“Can Valjean swim?” Baptistine asks, alarmed.

“Yes, but the waters…” Fantine trails off, getting up and rushing over to the side, looking for signs of Valjean coming up from the depths, goosebumps racing up her skin despite the warm temperatures.

“He dove in?” Myriel asks, shedding his own jacket and tossing it on the deck. “I’m going in after him.”

“No,” Fantine says, pressing his arm. “He wouldn’t want you to, just…just wait a moment, let’s see if he comes back up.”

Her voice sounds tremulous to her own ears, and she realizes once again how important Valjean has become to her, even in this short time-span. She’d watched the life flood back into him since they’d escaped Port Royal, in slow but erratic bursts of emotions, emotions he’d taught himself to put away for so long. The idea of him losing his second chance, the idea of losing him at all, steals her breath away. He’d begrudged it at first, but he’d become the friend and older brother she didn’t know she’d been searching for. The wind picks up and roars in her ears for a moment, rain starting to drip slowly from the sky. She gasps as Valjean bursts up through the water, holding a coughing, spluttering Fauchelevent.

“Throw down a line!” Myriel shouts, voice flooding with relief.  “Help pull them up.”

With a strength at which Fantine still marvels, Valjean takes hold of the rope, and although the men pull from the other side it still takes a great deal of effort for him to climb up while not letting go of Fauchelevent. They fall onto the deck with an odd grace, both coughing now.

“Are you all right?” Fantine exclaims, dashing over to Valjean as Myriel and Baptistine tend to Fauchelevent, who is miraculously still conscious.

Valjean nods, coughing once more before shaking his head and looking up at her as he sweeps his sopping hair out of his face.

“Worried about me, were you?” he asks, quirking one eyebrow.

“Oh, stop it,” Fantine says, swatting his arm. “Don’t you dare tease me, you could have died.”

“Fauchelevent needed help,” Valjean says, matter of fact, but there’s a benign twinkle in his eyes, vastly different from the angry glint she'd seen at their first meeting. “And I didn’t die, so you don’t have to fuss over me,” he grumbles.

“You are a thorn in my side,” Fantine shoots back, swiping at her moistening eyes, which she hopes will pass as drops from the now steady drizzle.

Valjean chuckles and it sounds warm, a far cry from the man she’d met a few months ago, but the man she’d suspected lay beneath, if life would just give him a chance.

“Valjean,” Fauchelevent says, approaching them, still breathless. “You saved my life, sir. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You are most welcome,” Valjean says, letting Fauchelevent clasp his hand. “Perhaps I should teach you how to swim,” he continues, wry.

“Perhaps,” Fauchelevent answers, laughing. “I was also thinking, well. I know you and the captain have been attempting to forge new freedom papers for you under a new name and I thought, if you like, you can use mine. I’d be glad to call you my brother.”

At this Valjean smiles, squeezing the other man’s shoulder in response.

“Thank you,” he says, voice shaking just enough that Fantine notices from her place next to him. “I would be honored.”

“It is I who have the honor,” Fauchelevent insists. “You are an excellent sailor, you have fallen into our ranks so easily, and now you have saved my life.”

They speak for a few more minutes as the rest of the crew stands at the ready, though the small storm dissipates almost as quickly as it came, the drizzle still prominent, but the wind dying down, until Baptistine and Magloire usher them away, insisting they come below to warm themselves.

“And to think a few months ago you told me you’d rather not associate with people,” Fantine says, half teasing, but also sincere, knowing just how many steps forward Valjean has taken.

“Oh,” Valjean says. “Hush.”

She grins, watching him go below, then turns, walking over to Toriano, the one most often at the wheel if Asante the sailing master isn’t. He sometimes gives her steering lessons, and today she hopes she might learn something new.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea. 1696.**

“How many men were injured?” Myriel asks Madame Magloire, who is bent over the accounting books. Valjean watches her eyes rove back and forth across the lines, ink splattered on her hands.

“Just two,” she says. “So minimal injury payments. “Their crew wasn’t much to contend with so Mr. Coburn told me,” she says, citing the quartermaster.

Myriel chuckles. “Mr. Coburn likes to tell stories, though he’s right in this instance, they gave up fairly quickly this time. And how many slaves did we rescue from the _Majesty_?” he asks, referencing the slave ship they’d just turned over.

“Ten,” she responds. “So we’ll need to pay for their necessities until we can get them passage where they’d like to go. But the money and goods we took to trade will be enough to do that and give all the men a small amount each. More than average, in fact. It was a small ship, but plentiful. We didn’t come away barely breaking even this time, we actually made a profit. Maybe we can keep the ship running properly and not stretch so thin.”

“Thank you,” Myriel says, clasping her shoulder with a smile.

She nods, waving him away as she tends to the books, writing once more, but the fondness in her eyes breaks through her stern expression.

“The _Majesty_ won’t come after us?” Valjean asks as Myriel turns back toward him.

“Not likely,” Myriel says. “We did a bit of damage to their ship, and they won’t want to engage us again. They’ll want to make port and nurse their losses, I expect.”

“Buying and selling human beings like they would boxes of silks or sugar,” Valjean mutters. “They treat the silk and sugar with more care.”

“The commerce of human beings is lucrative,” Myriel responds, a rare darkness in his voice. “Free labor leaves them more money, in the end, doesn’t it?”

Valjean sighs, nodding, falling quiet again as he follows Myriel back up on deck.

“Do many pirates free slaves?” Valjean asks as they emerge on deck, shooting a smile at Fantine, who stands by Laurent, the ship’s boatswain, who teaches her how to mend scratches and broken wood on the ship.

“It is a growing practice among us, yes” Myriel says. “There are of course plenty who participate in the trade themselves, though I select not to associate with them.”

“What happens when pirates do free them?” Valjean asks, feeling foolish for asking so many questions, but heeding Myriel's advice to ask as many as he liked so he might learn more about how the ship runs.

“Many end up pirates themselves,” Myriel says, smiling and gesturing at himself, the first real piece of the story Valjean’s received about how Myriel went from a slave to a pirate captain. “Some end up on islands around the region, though I try my best to get them passage wherever they might like to go, if I can manage it.”

“I was spared the horrors of being a slave,” Valjean says, not pressing Myriel, but wondering if he might learn more about this man who’s essentially offered him home aboard this ship out of the goodness on his heart. “I was lucky.”

“I don’t know that I’d call being an English convict laborer lucky, lad,” Myriel says, leaning his arms on the railing and looking out at the horizon. “That is a form of slavery in itself.”

“Yes,” Valjean admits. “But I at least my…” The world _family_ dies on his lips, and he grasps the railing tightly. The wound runs too deep to even say the word aloud, and pain slices at him when he thinks of his nephew, possibly alive, out in a world so wide he doesn’t even know how to search for him without any clues. “You were separated from your mother,” Valjean continues, and Myriel, bless him, doesn’t push. “And Fantine from her daughter. In the cruelest way possible.”

Myriel nods, a far-away look in his eyes, and Valjean wonders if he’ll elaborate on the story within them. He grasp Valjean’s forearm in comfort for a moment and looks him in the eye before turning away again, fingering his golden cross. Valjean realizes in that moment that it likely belonged to his mother.

“It was pirates who turned over the slave ship that took me away from my mother,” he says, the dying sunlight striking his face as he speaks, casting an orange glow on his skin. “I was fourteen or so. Spanish buccaneers, which is how I learned the language. Back in those days there were still some who sailed under their country of origins colors protecting their colonies and plundering the ships of rival ones, so these men were going against the rules, certainly. Things have changed since then. They cast pirates as outlaws as soon as they outlived their usefulness. Little did they know we’d start fighting back.”

Valjean smiles, feeling something warm in his chest, drawing him closer to the older man who has so radically changed his life so fast, given him an opportunity to start over.

“You’ve been on pirate ships ever since?”

“Various ones,” Myriel says. “Until I was lucky enough to get my own ship and reunite with my sister.”

“You don’t engage often with the Navy or East India,” Valjean says. “Might I ask why?”

“It’s been the best strategy to put my focus on the other merchants I know participate in the slave trade,” Myriel explains. “We do sometimes go after the smaller East India ships, and I believe the day is coming when the person who follows in my footsteps, when pirates of our sort all over will make the Navy and East India shake in their boots, when we will do real damage to their trade and their colonialism. But we had to build a foundation first. We had to start somewhere. But I feel the forward movement in these old bones. The day is coming.”

“It sounds like a prophecy,” Valjean responds, curious, consumed with the feeling that later in his life he will look back on this moment as a pivotal one even if right now he’s not certain why.

Myriel looks over at him, eyes meeting his before surveying his face, a mysterious smile tugging the corners of his lips upward.

“Perhaps it is, lad,” he says, the sunset reflected in his eyes. “Perhaps it is.”

* * *

**Saint-Pierre, Martinique. 1696.**

“Fantine is getting restless,” Valjean says, adjusting his tri-corner so it shields his eyes from the sun.

“I know,” Myriel says. “It’s why I left her with some duties on the ship today instead of asking her to come keep watch with us as normal. I feared she might just get up and burst through the front doors and accost the Thenardiers. Not that they don’t deserve it, but it will be easier to get Cosette out if they’re not home.”

“And if they keep to the pattern of leaving the house between 5 and 6 we will go in tomorrow?” Valjean asks, reaching back and tightening the tie around his dreadlocks.

“Yes,” Myriel responds, looking over at him, starting a smile.

“She’s going to be furious we went without her,” Valjean points out. “Even more so when she finds out you tricked her.”

“You’re worried?” Myriel asks, his smile spreading.

At this Valjean rolls his eyes, but he smiles in return, feeling a familiar lightness inside, a lightness he’s felt more often lately.

“Only that she’ll blame me,” Valjean says. “She likes to blame me. It’s a sport, I think.”

“Only when people have earned her upmost affection,” Myriel replies. “Besides, you can feel free to lay the blame on me,” he continues, chuckling. “It was my idea after all. Fantine has proved better at reconnaissance that most of my men, she's the one who found these wretched people on this island in the first place, but just from the burn in her eyes yesterday, well. She’ll agree once she’s done being annoyed. Anything to get Cosette back.”

Valjean nods. Finding Cosette hadn’t been easy, and seven months later, finally, they are about to succeed. They’d traced the Thenardiers footsteps from Haiti to Saint Kitts to Martinique, finally closing in on them. The Thenardiers apparently made a speciality of capturing free Africans caught without their freedom papers and selling them into the slave trade, and the mere thought of it makes Valjean sick to his stomach. Thanks to Myriel’s contacts and their own questioning of people who’d known the Thenardiers, they’d finally found success with locating them, but it had been frustrating and Valjean saw the toll it took on Fantine each time they hit a wall. But the hope in her eyes never died, even when he feared the struggle might douse out the light. Something about the journey itself, the sheer knowledge that she might find Cosette, put twice the life in her eyes than he’d seen when he watched the East India officers load her onto the ship months ago.

“You’re thinking about Fantine?” Myriel asks, and once again Valjean feels as if the older man reads his mind.

“I just want this to go well,” Valjean says. “She gave me her friendship even when I didn’t appreciate it, when it was so unlikely, if not for her I wouldn’t have made it off the ship, perhaps wouldn’t have trusted Madame Enjolras or Captain Barlow to help me. I’d be back in captivity or possibly not even breathing, and she…she deserves to have her daughter back.”

It grows quiet between them for a moment, and Valjean watches the breeze blow through the palm trees, thinking back to his first night on Myriel’s ship. He’d felt such a relief that he’s never felt before or since, undone at the things he’d experienced in such a short span of time; in Fantine’s friendship, in Madame Enjolras’ kindness, in Captain Barlow’s courage, in Myriel’s selflessness. That, combined with the anguish at losing his family, the uncertainty and yet still the freedom that lay ahead sending tears to his eyes again, even if he couldn’t name a just a single cause. The world burst open in front of him, not overrun with darkness, but flooded with light. He swore right then he would turn this opportunity into something. That he would start over.

Yet still, a piece of his past tugs at his heart.

 _Jahni_ , he thinks, still unable to fully picture the memory of his nephew holding his finger just before the moment that would change his life forever. The grief at his loss remains throbs through him, and he knows it will not soon disappear.

“You worry you will not be able to find your nephew,” Myriel says, looking over and meeting Valjean’s eyes.

“Do you have a connection to my mind that I’m unaware of?” Valjean asks. “You seem to know what I’m thinking before I say it. Even when I don’t say it at all.”

“Intuition,” Myriel says. “You aren’t that difficult to read, after all. Even if you think so.” Myriel’s eyes twinkle, but Valjean watches a shadow form in them almost moments later.

“The men like you very much,” Myriel continues. “I think that when I’m gone, there’s a good chance they’ll choose you as captain.”

“Captain,” Valjean says, taken aback. “Why would you speak that way? Surely…”

“I’m not saying you’ll be rid of me just yet,” Myriel says. “But I’m an old man, Valjean. I want to look out for the future of what we do. And I’d like to see someone replace me before I see the other side.”

“But sir,” Valjean presses. “I’ve only been sailing with you for a few months.”

“As I said,” Myriel answers. “I still have time left. But you work hard, Valjean, you are kind to the others on the ship. You saved Fauchelevent's life. Simply keep it in mind. I will not make the crew’s choices for them, of course, that is not what we do. But I’d like to see you take my place.”

Valjean looks away, feeling his eyes grow wet.

Myriel puts a hand on Valjean’s shoulder. “Piracy is on the rise,” he says, voice reverberating with passion. “Piracy that will challenge those in power. More people doing what we do, and variations of that. You and Fantine, my crew, you are all the future of that.” Valjean dares to look over again, and there’s a light in Myriel’s eyes that sparks a belief in his own capability. Myriel smiles again.

“You taught me, sir,” Valjean says.

“You were a natural pupil,” Myriel says. “And talented with a sword, once you had one,” he teases.

“I never thought myself a natural pupil,” Valjean protests. “I was so angry, I still am angry….”

“For understandable reasons,” Myriel says. “But I’ve watched you these past months. You’ve changed. Or rather, become who you always were, but never had the opportunity to be.”

“I want my nephew to have that chance,” Valjean whispers. “My sister, she…she always said he was something special. That he was smart. I don’t understand how she could know, he was a baby, but she insisted.”

“Mothers know things, it seems,” Myriel says. “Fantine seems to know, even if it might seem irrational, that she will find Cosette. And here we are, after all.”

Valjean nods. “I don’t claim to understand that kind of thought,” he says. “I don’t know if I have that much faith, yet. But I do know that I want my nephew to have a chance. Life certainly hasn’t given him one yet, but I’d like to.”

“I think you will find him,” Myriel says, squeezing his shoulder again. “Life has an odd way of drawing people together who need each other.”

Valjean’s about to answer when they hear the front door open, revealing little Cosette. She’s no more than 5, and the broom she carries is nearly as tall as she is. Her black curls are short and tangled, a kerchief tied around her head and keeping them out of her face. They fall more loosely than Fantine's but still thick. She sweeps at the sand on the stoop, a fruitless effort, but she puts her mind to it anyway. Valjean finds himself watching the little girl, his heart drawn out when he sees the misery written into the lines on her face even as the barest spark of life lights up her eyes. She looks like Fantine, he thinks, small frame and dark eyes, her tiny hands roughened from work. She starts humming a tune as she works, and Valjean feels something matching it in his spirit. He’s hardly had time to consider his affection for this child he doesn’t even truly know, when they hear the loud voices of the Thenardiers approaching.

“Ah you were trying to sweep before we got back, but we’ve beat you to it,” Madame Thenardier crows, and Valjean sees the fear in the little girl’s eyes before the woman’s hand even comes down to smack her ear. “That’s what you get!”

Cosette looks like she’s about to argue but thinks better of it, not fighting when Madame Thenardier seizes her sleeve and drags her inside, following her husband. Valjean’s fingernails dig into his palm, and if he’s honest he wants to break the door right now and spirit Cosette away, so he can only imagine how Fantine feels.

“Right on time,” Myriel says, a rare anger in his voice. “We’ll come tomorrow for Cosette. Just you, Fantine, and me. I don’t want to draw too much attention, there’s no telling the sorts of contacts these scoundrels might know.” He pauses, eyes drawn back to Valjean. “I fear Fantine thinks me callous, waiting like this, but…”

“No,” Valjean assures him. “She understands we have to do what is safest for Cosette and what ensures that we can retrieve her and get back to the ship with as little interference as possible. It’s hard for her, but she knows why.”

“We should get back to the ship,” Myriel says. “To plan for tomorrow.”

Valjean agrees, and after a half hour they find themselves not only back on the ship, but confronted by Fantine.

“And where have _you_ been?” she asks, addressing Valjean, hands resting on her hips, eyes narrowed.

“I think you likely already know the answer,” Valjean says, stepping back just slightly. “And I feel that if I answer it will only encourage your wrath.”

“You’re right about that!” she exclaims. “You went to spy on those terrible people without me. Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I was afraid you might burst in right there if you had to watch them treat your daughter that way one more time,” Myriel says, interrupting, but still decidedly kind. “Don’t blame Valjean, he was just following my orders.”

Fantine huffs, but her anger deflates. “Well I can’t say that you’re wrong,” she admits, crossing her arms over her chest now, softening. “But when will this end? When can I get my daughter back?”

“Tomorrow,” Myriel says. “They’ve kept to their pattern for a week, and I think we’ll succeed.”

At this Fantine rushes toward Myriel in a blur, embracing him, looking tiny against his height. Valjean watches him smile, and there are tears swimming in the older man's eyes.

“Thank you,” he hears Fantine whisper. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I think I just might,” Myriel says, voice tremulous, and Valjean admires the way the older man allows himself his own emotions. “But you are welcome nevertheless.”

With that Myriel heads toward his cabin to attend to some business with the sailing master, and Fantine turns toward Valjean, crossing her arms over her chest again, but there’s a sly half-smile on her face.

“Still angry at me?” Valjean asks, going over to lean against the railing.

“Surprisingly you are very difficult to remain angry at,” Fantine answers.

“Oh don’t tease me,” Valjean mutters. “You get far too much joy out of it.”

“Oh, you enjoy it,” Fantine says. “You should laugh more, after all.”

She comes over, joining him at the railing and watching the sun as it starts setting beyond the docks, the premature years on her face washing away in the weakening light and the knowledge that if all goes well tomorrow she will see her daughter again.

“Tomorrow, Valjean,” she whispers. “After all this time. Do you…I wonder if she’ll remember me. Children that young don’t have much memory.”

“I think she’ll know you,” Valjean assures her. “I think she’ll be so relieved to be out of there that she won’t have any desire to question you if she didn’t recognize you as her mother. Besides, who would go to such a risk other than someone who loved her dearly?”

At this Fantine slips her arm though Valjean’s, small hand resting on his broad forearm. Somehow, the silence says everything.

* * *

Fantine breathes in deeply as they approach the Thenardier home, which she’s consistently noted is more ramshackle than she’d expected, given the usual lucrative outcome of their despicable chosen profession. Anticipation overtakes her, and she regulates her breathing, noticing it growing shallow the closer they got to the home. Now, standing in front of it, knowing her daughter is on the other side, is almost too much to process. She feels Valjean’s hand rest on her shoulder briefly, and it steadies her.

Nothing, not even an unexpected appearance from the Thenardiers, will prevent her from reuniting with Cosette and whisking her away from this place and these horrible people.

“All right,” Myriel whispers as though afraid someone is there with them among the trees, watching. “Let’s go.”

They walk quickly but quietly toward the house, looking behind them for any signs of the Thenardiers returning, but hear and see nothing. They kept watch for an hour, the Thenardiers leaving at precisely five, this time taking their two young daughters with them, which was outside the normal pattern. But whatever that meant they were here, and they couldn’t turn back now. Myriel pushes the door open, wincing at the loud creak it makes. As soon as they step inside they’re met by Cosette, who holds her broom in front of her like a weapon, obviously thinking she’ll fend them off.

“Who are you?” she asks, and up close Fantine sees just how thin her daughter is, dirt embedded under her fingernails and coloring them black. Her curls fall in half-matted tangles down to her shoulders, the ends uneven and looking as if they’d been hewn off with little care. The fear in her little girl’s eyes cuts Fantine to the quick, a knife slicing so deep she feels a pain stab through her. She takes another breath, stepping forward as Myriel and Valjean follow her lead.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” Fantine says, smiling as she kneels down to Cosette’s level, blinking back the tears that spring forth. “We’re here to take you away from here.”

Cosette slowly lowers the broom, putting it down and leaning it against the wall. She doesn’t step forward, instead analyzing Fantine’s face from a few feet away, tilting her head as if she remembers but cannot quite place her mother’s face. She steps forward after a moment, tentative, hand reaching out and fingering one of Fantine’s curls. Then she reaches up for the locket, and Fantine remembers her playing with it as a baby, laughing as she made it twirl around. She raises her eyes up to Fantine’s face, and Fantine feels her heart race even faster.

“Mama?” Cosette asks, eyes widening in shock.

Fantine’s power of speech fails her. She reaches out, wrapping her arms around Cosette and hugging her close, feeling some of the tears leak out of her eyes despite her efforts. Cosette hesitates a moment but then she slips her arms around her mother’s neck, head leaning against Fantine’s cheek. The world could crumble around her right now, Fantine thinks, and she wouldn’t care. Nothing matters except the warmth of Cosette’s breath on her neck, her small arms wrapped around, clinging to safety.

“Fantine, we should go,” Valjean prompts, gentle, but urgent.

Finally, Fantine pulls back from Cosette, but doesn’t let go.

“We need to get you out of here, darling,” Fantine says, searching her daughter’s face. “Is there anything here you want to take with you?”

Cosette nods, and Fantine feels empty as she lets go, padding over to retrieve what looks like a tattered rag doll and slipping it into the pocket of her apron. Just as she reaches Fantine again the door opens, banging back against the wall.

“Intruders!” Thenardier shouts. “I thought so.” He surveys the room, his wife and daughters that Fantine’s heard called Eponine and Azelma standing behind him. “Just what the devil do you think you’re doing in my house?”

“We’re here to take young Cosette with us,” Myriel says without preamble, and Fantine watches Valjean’s hand go to the hilt of his sword. “Allow us that, and we’ll leave without any trouble.”

“That child is our property,” Madame Thenardier says, shoving in beside her husband, and shooing her daughters outside, a maternal instinct Fantine hadn’t expected.

“She is my _daughter_ ,” Fantine says, voice crackling with anger. “And she is no one’s property.” She stands up, shielding Cosette with her body, the little girl keeping a firm hold of her hand, the other grasping her skirts.

“You cannot come in here and take her away just like that!” Thenardier insists.

“Oh,” Myriel says, stepping forward so he’s nose to nose with the other man. “I think you’ll find we can.”

Fantine’s never had cause to even consider fearing Myriel, but as his voice lowers, danger lingering within it, she sees why someone might. He doesn’t openly engage with the Navy or East India where he can help it, but she’s seen him frighten some of the captains of slave ships they’ve overtaken with a glance or a word, using the power of his anger constructively to help others. He is so often the kindly older man that it still surprises her when she sees it. It is, she considers for a moment, similar to Valjean.

“You’ll pay her for us or we’ll alert the authorities,” Thenardier says.

“And alert them to your illegal activities?” Myriel says, smiling now. “No you won’t.”

“You’re pirates!” Madame Thenardier shouts. “I think they’ll be more interested in that than in us.”

“We’re not paying you for a little girl you participated in enslaving,” Valjean says, speaking up. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll be going.”

“I do mind,” Thenardier says, eyes narrowing now. He pulls out pistol they hadn’t noticed from under his shirt, pointing it at Valjean. “I think you’ll find I mind a great deal, in fact.”

Fantine pushes Cosette fully behind her, and then everything happens so fast she later has trouble remembering the exact course of events. Madame Thenardier lunges for Myriel, who pushes her off and she falls to the ground. Often hesitant to use his sword, he pulls it out like lightning, pointing it at her to keep her down. In almost the same moment Valjean grabs the end of Thenardier’s pistol and points it at the ceiling. Thenardier pulls the trigger and Cosette jumps at the bang, the bullet lodging in the ceiling above them. Not much of a match for Valjean’s strength, Thenardier loses his grip on the gun after a moment and Valjean tosses it across the room. He seizes Thenardier’s collar, pushing him back against the wall.

“As Captain Myriel said,” Valjean says, but he doesn’t raise his voice an inch. “”We’ll be going.”

He lets go of Thenardier's jacket, giving him a small shove against the wall. 

"We don't want to hurt you," Myriel says, though Fantine thinks the glint in Valjean's eyes indicates he might feel differently, though he holds himself in check. "Just let us go with the child and we'll be no more trouble to you." 

His disdain for the couple is evident in his tone and the way he clenches his jaw, but their priority was Cosette, and they needed to get out and away from the island before the Thenardiers likely inevitably reported them. Finally, Madame Thenardier relents, holding up her hands, and Myriel surveys her for weapons before removing his foot, even going so far as to help her up from the floor. 

"Fantine," Myriel says, gesturing to her. "You go out first with Cosette, we’ll be right there."

Fantine does as requested, putting Cosette in front of her and walking outside. For her part, Cosette does not look back but holds tighter to Fantine's hand and her crumbling rag doll. 

"You're really going to take me away from here?" Cosette asks, and Fantine sees she's trembling. "You're not going to send me back?"

"Oh darling," Fantine says, blinking back tears again. "No. That will not happen."

Fantine and Cosette both turn when they hear Thenardier's angry voice pierce the air in time with Myriel and Valjean coming outside to join them.

"I'll find you, mark my words!" he shouts. "I'll get my property back, you scoundrels!"

Fantine winces at the word _property_ , wishing she could erase the memory from Cosette's mind.

"Of all the people to call someone else a scoundrel," Myriel says, eyes flashing, hand closing over the golden cross he always wears. "Let's go. We need to get back to the ship, I don't trust them not to alert someone with some kind of ill-conceived story full of half-truths."

He steps in front of them to lead the way, sparing a kind smile for Cosette before setting off, and Valjean stays behind so they're protected from both sides. Cosette sticks close to Fantine's side, but after a few minutes she turns back around to Valjean, eyes wide with curiosity. 

"Are you..." she hesitates, fearful but also drawn in. "Are you my Papa?"

Valjean halts in his tracks for a moment, then remembers the urgency of their departure and keeps walking. If it weren't such a serious moment Fantine would have laughed at his flabbergasted expression which looks as if he's caught between smiling and frowning, stumped by a simple question from a child. His eyes, she notes, are mired in affection, which she's seen growing each time they'd gone to spy on the Thenardiers and Cosette emerged. 

"No," he says, unsure. "But I'm glad to have helped you out of there. I'm Jean Valjean, your mother's friend."

Cosette considers him, a bright, full smile that lights up her eyes breaking out across her face. 

"I'd like you to be my Papa," she declares, before burying her face back into Fantine's side, turning slightly so she can look at Valjean once more. 

"I'm not sure..." Valjean tries. 

Fantine silences him with a shake of her head, trying to hide her own grin. 

"...that doll is sufficient," Valjean finishes, following Fantine's lead. "We should find you a new one."

Cosette smiles quickly, shy again, and after searching for permission-she'd seen those wretched people strike her daughter- and receiving it, Fantine picks her daughter up, carrying her toward the safety of Myriel's ship. 

* * *

**Caribbean Sea. July 1697.**

"Mama!" six year old Cosette exclaims, running across the deck to Fantine and leaping into her arms. Fantine catches her, still reveling in the joy in her daughter's eyes, which has overtaken the hollow, fearful gaze there when they'd first rescued her from the Thenardiers.  Her long, thick black curls cascade down her back, the edges finally even again after years of being hewn off by the Thenardiers without care.

"Careful running across the deck please," Fantine says. "What are you so excited about, darling?"

"Papa Valjean is teaching me how to swordfight!" Cosette informs her, gleeful. 

"Pardon?" Fantine asks, eyes darting over to Valjean who looks sheepish but pleased. 

"I picked up some wooden swords when we made port and I thought..." he trails off for a moment, unsure. "I thought it might make a fun game for Cosette while we're out at sea."

Fantine pretends to frown, eyes narrowing playfully for a moment. 

"Ah well in that case," she says, wry. "I was worried you were teaching her how to use a cutlass."

"What!" Valjean exclaims. "I would never..." he stops, raising his eyebrows. "You are teasing me again. What have I said about teasing me?"

"That I should do it as often as possible," Fantine says, a grin on her lips. 

"Why on earth do I tolerate you?" Valjean says, chuckling and wholly unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. 

"I don't possess the time to give you the list," Fantine says.

“Are you arguing?” Cosette asks, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet.

“No,” Valjean laughs, toughing a finger to the edge of her nose. “We’re teasing.”

“Oh!” Cosette says, turning back to her mother, eager. “Can we show you what Papa Valjean taught me?”

Fantine nods, watching as Cosette takes the second wooden sword from Valjean’s hand. Nearly since the day they’d rescued her Cosette latched onto Valjean, always calling him ‘Papa Valjean’ and sometimes just ‘Papa.’ No one corrected her, and Valjean himself obviously reveled in it. He’d asked her once, if she minded, and Fantine assured him she didn’t.

_“We’re family now, aren’t we?” she’d asked in a whisper._

_“Yes,” Valjean had said after a moment, testing the idea. “I do suppose we are.”_

There’d been a silent recognition of the fact that they still hadn’t located Valjean’s nephew, but Fantine hoped that until they did, and she was determined they would, that his new found family of friendship and adoptive fatherhood might keep the hope in his heart. This was certainly not the life she’d predicted, living on a pirate ship, her daughter calling the older man she saw as a brother and dear friend ‘Papa’ but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t happy. Happier than she ever remembered being in her tumultuous life. Free.

“On guard!” Cosette shouts, clearly having just learned the phrase. “You scoundrel naval officer!”

Fantine laughs uproariously at this, not only just because of her daughter’s phrasing, but because of the astonished expression on Valjean’s face.

“Wait,” he says, pulling back. “I didn’t agree to be the naval officer.”

“Well _I’m_ the pirate,” Cosette says, matter of fact. “So you have to be the naval officer.”

“Well then,” Valjean says, looking up and arching one eyebrow at Fantine. “As you wish, my lady.” He bows slightly, and Cosette giggles, smacking her sword against Valjean’s with as much force as she can muster.

They continue in this way until Fantine hears the sound of coughing coming from the direction of the captain’s cabin, and Valjean stops, his features falling in an instant.

“What’s the matter?” Cosette asks, plaintive. “Is Captain Myriel still sick?”

“He’s not feeling well, no,” Fantine says. “Say, Papa Valjean and I have some duties we need to tend to, how about you go over to Asante?” she says, gesturing to the sailing master who stands next to Toriano at the wheel.  “I know you like looking at his maps, and he doesn’t look busy.”

Cosette nods with such enthusiasm that she nearly topples, leaning over to kiss Fantine’s cheek when it’s offered and dashing across the deck.

“Don’t run!” Fantine calls out, her efforts fruitless. She turns back to Valjean with a sigh, lowering her voice. “We make port in the morning?”

“According to the calculations,” Valjean says. “Though the wind isn’t cooperating as much as I wish it was.”

“He’s no better?”

“I relieved Baptistine last night and sat with him for hours,” Valjean says, his eyes mired down in sorrow. “He coughed so much he barely slept, and when he did sleep I feared he wouldn’t wake up.”

“And Silva says he doesn’t believe it’s consumption?” she asks, speaking of the ship’s surgeon, a former Spanish privateer.

“He doesn’t think so,” Valjean answers. “But I don’t think he’s certain what it is, either. Myriel claims he’s simply growing old, but he’s trying to make it easier on the rest of us. He confronts death with far more ease than anyone I’ve yet met.”

Fantine nods, her response cut off when one of the sailors approaches, informing them that the captain wishes to see them. They go into the cabin, finding Myriel lying in bed, Baptistine and the quartermaster Mr. Coburn at his side. He looks smaller than usual, Fantine thinks, his eyes tired and his smile falty, though that feeling of safety in his presence doesn’t dissipate.

“You should go get some rest,” Myriel tells his sister, squeezing her hand. “I’ll be all right with Valjean and Fantine.”

Baptistine looks at him skeptically but goes anyway, patting Fantine on the shoulder as she does. When the door closes behind her Myriel coughs again, but it subsides after a moment and he looks at them, serious.

“I have discussed things with Coburn,” Myriel says. “And I will be transferring the captaincy to him for the time being, until I call the vote in a few days’ time and the new captain accepts and settles.”

“Sir,” Valjean says, and Fantine hears the grief already in his tone. “You’re going to call for the vote already, surely…”

“I’m not long for this world, lad,” Myriel says, laying a hand on Valjean’s knee. “I want to make sure things are tended to before I go.”

“The men will vote for you won’t they Mr. Coburn?” Fantine asks, confused by the smile on the quartermaster’s face.

“I’m taking myself out of the running,” he says, looking over at Myriel with fondness. “I’m set to take Madame Baptistine and Madame Magloire to the small home the captain purchased long ago from someone with discretion in Kingston, and look after them in his place.”

“Well then,” Valjean says, and he looks at Myriel in question. Fantine knows Myriel told him long ago his desire for Valjean to stand in his place, that he felt the men would agree. “Who will the vote be between?”

“I’ve spoken casually to the others,” Coburn says. “And I haven’t heard anyone speak of wishing to replace the captain, but they did imply they’d vote for you if you were to put yourself in the running.

“But I haven’t been on this ship nearly as long as so many others,” Valjean protests. “It seems unfair…”

“The men will ultimately decide who replaces me,” Myriel says, a cough marring his words. “And it less about time spent as it is loyalty and who merits the position. But this conversation is about whether or not you want to put yourself in the running. If no one runs against you then we shall simply call a yes or no vote.”

Fantine watches Valjean hesitate, anxiety in his eyes. She personally feels he would make an excellent captain, but he ultimately has to decide that for himself.

“If that is what you wish sir,” Valjean says. “Then I will.”

“I want to know if it is what you wish,” Myriel insists.

Valjean pauses again, something steeling in his eyes.

“Yes,” he finally says, hands grasping at the fabric of his trousers. “It would be my honor.”

At this Myriel smiles, and it brightens his face, restoring some of his usual effervescence. And when Fantine looks over at Valjean she sees it matched on his own face, feeling something certain, something telling lodging in her heart.

A few days later when everyone gathers on deck for the vote, Myriel himself makes an appearance, a rattle in his chest but determination in his face, looking as though he’s driven by some higher power Fantine cannot name. No one’s decided to put in their name against Valjean, so it’s come down to a simple majority vote. Fantine isn’t sure what will happens if Valjean doesn’t receive a majority vote, but the thrill of the ability to choose not only leaders but objectives through the choice of the crew doesn’t escape her. Mr. Coburn drew up pieces of paper for each crew member to mark yes or no for Valjean, keeping the individual votes a secret and making it simpler for some of the men who were only partially literate. Feeling Valjean tense beside her as Coburn counts the votes, Fantine squeezes his shoulder in comfort as Cosette looks on, reveling in the excitement and doing her best to keep quiet.

“Well,” Mr. Coburn says with a telling smile at Valjean. “With only three votes against, it seems you have an overwhelming majority, Valjean. Congratulations.”

A loud cheer erupts from the men, and they surround Valjean, patting him on the back and teasing him good-naturedly.

“Is Papa Valjean the new captain now?” Cosette asks, tugging on Fantine’s sleeve.

“He is,” Fantine says, picking her daughter up and lifting her so she can see the commotion properly. “It seems most everyone is happy about it.”

“I think he’ll make the _best_ captain,” Cosette says, emphatic. Cosette turns her gaze away from the rambunctious crowd, contemplating her mother. “Does that mean you’ll get to take Mr. Coburn’s place?” she asks.

Fantine laughs, kissing her daughter on the side of the head and eliciting a stream of giggles.

“I don’t know about that just yet,” Fantine says. “I’m certain we’ll have to vote on it. Once Mr. Coburn leaves, I’m sure the subject will arise.”

“Well,” Cosette says, as serious as is possible for a six-year-old. “I’d like it if you were.”

“Thank you very much,” Fantine says, and Cosette hugs her neck. Fantine thinks she’ll never grow tired of that feeling.

Her attention goes back over to Myriel, who beckons Valjean over, speaking as loud as he can in his condition.

“Congratulations my lad,” Myriel says, and Valjean squats down so that he can meet Myriel’s eyes as he sits in the chair they’d brought on deck. Myriel puts both hands on Valjean’s shoulders and Valjean’s posture shifts as if he’s taking on the metaphorical burden Myriel passes him. “I am most certain you will lead this crew well, and honor the spirit of equality we strive for on this ship. I’m also certain you will do me proud.”

Fantine sees a few tears leak from Valjean’s eyes, trembling as though his soul cannot process the sheer amount of joy and grief he feels all at once.

A few days later, Myriel breathes his last.

* * *

**Port Royal, Jamaica. 1701.**

“I cannot believe we are here,” Fantine grumbles in Valjean’s ear. “I cannot believe that this is where we chose to go, of every island in the Caribbean. I cannot believe you allowed it.”

“I lead according to the will of the crew,” Valjean protests. “Besides, it’s not as if they’re looking for us anymore.”

“Port Royal is the lion’s den for pirates,” Fantine argues. “You know that as well as I do.”

“It is also the power stronghold of East India in the region,” Valjean replies. “We agreed it was time to start pushing back even harder against them. We are also not engaging in an all-out battle here in their port. These quick night missions have been going well because they expect pirates to always come in firing. They don’t expect simple theft.” He looks over, trying out a smile, but she glares back, though she’s having a difficult time holding on to the expression. “If my quartermaster disagrees with me…”

“Oh don’t tease me,” Fantine says, but she breaks out into a chuckle. “It’s not enough that we’ve turned over their supply ships? Some slave ships?”

“These smaller missions are just as important,” Valjean protests. “You agreed with me before.”

“Yes,” Fantine says. “Until the men selected Port Royal as the next target.” She raises her eyebrows. “Are you certain you’re not just doing something so daring so that you might add to your growing reputation in the papers? I can just see it now, ‘ _The Pirate Fauchelevent Strikes Again in the Heart of East India Territory!_ ’”

“I admit it crossed my mind,” Valjean says, wry, receiving a swat for his trouble.

“I’m so pleased you decided to accept my offer to use my name sir,” Fauchelevent says from behind him them. “I think it has a nice ring to it.”

“Oh don’t encourage him,” Fantine says, but Valjean sees her smile breaking through.

Fauchelevent laughs. “The captain is usually humble unless he sees fit to tease you, Miss Fantine.”

“Oh,” Fantine says, but Valjean sees the pleased glimmer in her eyes.

They lay in wait for a few minutes with just three of their crew-Fauchelevent, Toriano, and Laurent-biding their time until the paltry two guards from the English navy make their way further down the dock and leave the East India ship they’ve got their eyes on unmanned. Or at least as far as they can tell.

“I wonder how Astra is,” Fantine says, wistful, looking off into the distance where they can just see the Enjolras household on the horizon, about a mile from the docks on the top of the hill.

“I hope well,” Valjean says. “I wish that we could visit her, but…”

“We cannot,” Fantine, her voice sad to Valjean’s ears. “It sounds silly, given we only knew the woman for a few hours several years ago, but I feel as if I made a lifelong friend that night. We wouldn’t be here without her.”

Valjean nods in agreement. “It’s odd,” Valjean muses. “That one day Astra’s son might be one of the very men sent to chase after people like us. If he takes over for his father or joins the navy.”

“Hmm,” Fantine says. “I’m not sure what will happen, given Astra is his mother and she made it her business to help us. It’s an odd combination of influences. Even then, when we met her, Astra seemed worried about his spirit colliding with his father.”

Valjean opens his mouth to respond, but then the guards move away and he’s drawn to the task at hand.

“Our first objective is the goods on board,” Valjean whispers. “East India ships like this one often carry cotton and silks, which we can make use of,” he continues. He’s expanded their work in the few years since Myriel passed, believing their former captain would approve. They still engage in open waters, turning over even larger slave and supply ships, including ones belonging to East India. But these smaller missions allow them to steal in the quiet, giving the goods to people who need them instead of reaching only the hands of the wealthy if they remained with East India. It’s drawn the English Navy’s attention to them, but it’s worth the risk. “If you see any money lying about, well. Take advantage.”

They walk as quietly as possible toward The _Navigator_ , sneaking aboard without issue. That’s the advantage with these: no one expects it, so they can usually get in and away without getting caught. Given his own propensity for noise and his aptitude with a sword and hand to hand combat, Valjean keeps watch on deck while Fantine and the others race below searching for goods. The _Misericorde_ sits docked on the side of the island, flying English colors to hide in plain sight. Valjean isn’t foolish enough to stay in port overnight, however, in case anyone who comes across the ship recognizes it. Valjean remains alert should anyone show themselves, but they seem to have gotten lucky this time. After a few minutes Toriano, Laurent, and Fauchelevent emerge with two boxes each and one for him, and Valjean wonders what’s keeping Fantine. She emerges after a few minutes and the anxiety coursing through Valjean’s veins eases a bit. Fantine carries two smaller boxes, but also holds a piece of paper in her hand.

“Valjean,” she whispers, holding out the page, which looks as if it was ripped from the ship’s log. “This is Michel Enjolras’ ship.”

“No,” Valjean says immediately. “His ship isn’t named the _Navigator_.”

“It’s been renamed,” Fantine insists. “Recently, according to this log. Look.”

“I believe you,” Valjean says, taking the paper. “But we have to go, I will read this as soon as we reach the ship. The guards will make their way this direction again in a matter of minutes.”

Fantine nods, and they make their way through the darkness and back to the _Misericorde_ without incident. It will not remain this way, Valjean thinks. Soon there will send a heavier guard for the docks at night. Once they’re back on the ship, the boxes taken below and getting ready to set sail, Valjean pulls the piece of paper out of his pocket.

_‘This ship has been renamed The Navigator in honor of our fallen sailing master Arthur Combeferre, who fell in defense of our captain, Michel Enjolras, in a storm this day one year ago.’_

“Signed _Captain M. Enjolras_ ,” Valjean breathes. “And your friend Chantal, Monsieur Combeferre was the father of her child. I remember you mentioning it. You knew him?”

“Met him once,” Fantine clarifies. “He was a kind man. Unlike many of his stature, well. He never left Chantal or their son in a lurch, at least not that I saw before I was sold into slavery. But not only that, Valjean. Read the signature below.”

Valjean does, eyes widening when they land on the signature just below the captain’s.

_N. Javert, quartermaster._

“Javert’s moved up in the world,” Valjean mutters. “I knew how powerful Michel Enjolras was, but I hadn’t realized Javert was on his crew. And apparently of great importance. I’ve said it before but something in Javert’s eyes, well. Something told me that night that once he was able he would search for us. And now we’ve put ourselves in his view directly.”

“We’ve been going after East India cargo for years now,” Fantine says, almost reading his mind. “And I know we’d been trying to maneuver around Captain Enjolras as much as we could for thinking of Astra, but. I don’t think we’re going to be able to do that any longer.”

“No,” Valjean says, breathing a small sigh of relief when he hears the men pull the anchor up so they can set off. “I’m afraid we won’t.”

* * *

**Caribbean Sea. 1702.**

14-year-old Jahni Feuilly flinches when he hears a sudden shout pierce through the calm. They're far out at sea, and there was not any bad weather stirring, so he's not sure of the cause. He turns away from the group of five slaves chained below in the hold of this East India ship. Truth be told he's not supposed to be down here at all, helping his fellow slaves is expressly against the rules, but he's found he has nothing to lose. He'd rather give them fresh water and risk the punishment. He knows what it's like, being chained in a hold like this; he'd been stuck in one himself, then sold to the captain of this ship two years ago. He'd been patching together work on ships and islands since he lost his family in a hurricane, but a year later when he crossed paths with the wrong person, his freedom papers washed away in the storm, he found himself swept into the slave trade.

The hold still reeks with a smell Feuilly only tolerates because he's used to the stench. The hold was full up until two days ago when they'd stopped in port and delivered-even thinking the word in relation to other human beings makes Feuilly sick-the majority of the slaves to a sugar plantation in Barbados.

"What was that, young man?" one of the older men asks.

"I'm not sure," Feuilly answers, trying to smile and keep the fear out of his voice. "Don't worry, I'm sure something just slipped on deck."

 _Don’t worry_ , Feuilly says internally. _You're only a slave with everything to worry about._

There's another shout from above, and this time Feuilly makes out a word.

"Pirates!"

Pirates, Feuilly thinks, feeling a flare of hope. He's heard rumors of some pirates turning over slave ships and starting to disrupt the trade itself. He's also heard rumblings of captains of mixed or African descent among pirates, resting alongside the hysterical, almost mythical stories of terror and blood. He's not entirely sure which is true, though part of him suspects the latter largely consists of stories made up by the colonial governments to smear the people who threatened their sources of gaining yet more money.

"I have to go above," he tells them. "But try not to be frightened."

He gives them a smile before running up the stairs, the chaotic scene in front of him coming into view. Captain Anderson shouts at the sailing master, who stands at the wheel looking harried, sailors running every which way and readying the canons. Two of which, Feuilly knows, are out of commission. Another ship is now mere feet away, raising a black flag. Out of instinct he feels for the small journal he keeps in his pocket, the sole thing that survived the hurricane. He writes in it when he catches snatches of time, saving the paper for important moments when he has ideas or thoughts he doesn't want to forget. The journal ties itself to memories of his parents, doing their best to teach him to read and write side by side with their work and taking care of his brothers and sisters, supplementing the lessons he gave himself.

"You, boy," the captain says, spotting him. "Get me my pistols from my cabin. Immediately."

Feuilly does as asked, begrudgingly, eyes catching on the ship fast approaching. No matter who they are, he's certain he'd rather be on that ship than this one. If he could get the remaining five slaves on board with the pirates, all the better. Once he returns from the captain's cabin with the pistols in hand the captain ignores him, seemingly caring little if he's lost in the battle. After all, Feuilly thinks, to this man, he's infinitely replaceable. To Feuilly's surprise, once the ship catches them, it doesn't fire its canons. No doubt anxious to preserve their ammunition, Captain Anderson signals to the master gunner to hold fire, though each man on board holds tight to their swords and a few to their pistols, poised for battle.

"Fire on my command only," the captain says as the sound of the gangplank hitting the wood resounds in Feuilly's ears. A man and woman emerge and walk down it, the man exceedingly tall and broad, the woman small and slight, but both possessing an aura of competence, danger, and determination. The woman is decidedly of African descent, Feuilly decides, and the man's skin is a similar color to his own, though a shade or two darker, and Feuilly wonders what his heritage is, knows the rarity of his own, a mix of African, native Carib, and white European bloodlines. Feuilly's gaze remains on the man for a moment, and in a wave of something he can only consider temporary madness, he feels as if he _knows_ this man. As if he's lived somewhere in his dreams, yet Feuilly's also certain he's never laid eyes on him in his life.

"We would prefer not to battle with you," the man says as soon as his boots land on the deck. "We know you have slaves on this ship, so if you hand them over to us I swear to you we will do you no harm. If you don't, well. I suppose I needn't elaborate." The man's voice hangs in the air a moment, an odd mix of friendly and threatening, and Feuilly doesn't miss some of the East India sailors stepping back at the man's mere presence.

"What?" Captain Anderson scoffs. "So I can give them away to the profit of pirates?"

"No," the woman says, a surprising snarl in her voice. "So they might be free."

There's a long, terrible pause, and Feuilly feels his heart hammering in his chest.

"Attack!" Captain Anderson finally shouts, holding the pirate captain's eyes. He holds off the order to fire the canons, but before Feuilly even knows what's happening there are pirates running down the gangplank and swinging over on ropes, pistols shots ringing out against the clang of the swords. Through the melee and spots the woman he assumes is the quartermaster going down with another pirate to the hold, no doubt after the slaves as they'd mentioned. Feuilly dashes behind them, bolting down the stairs.

"Can you get them out?" Feuilly asks the woman, who turns, surprised.

"Yes," she answers, eyes surveying him. "Why aren't you down here as well?"

"Captain Anderson is my master," Feuilly says, the word leaving a terrible aftertaste in his mouth. "I've been on this ship two years."

"Forced to participate in a trade that makes cargo of your own people," the woman whispers, empathy brimming in her voice. "Come with us. We'll get you out of here."

Feuilly nods, following them out as they lead the other slaves out, still chained together. In the chaos Feuilly finds the crew barely notices, intent on their own battle, but just as they reach the gangplank Feuilly hears Captain Anderson's shout.

"You will not make off with my cargo!" he shouts, pointing his pistol directly at the last slave in the line, a boy scarcely older than Feuilly himself, chained to his older sister. "Or my slave boy."

The pirate captain sheaths his sword, pulling out his own pistol and cocking it.

"You cannot win this," the pirate says. "Thinking you can is foolish. Save the lives of your men, and back _down_."

The pirate captain's words are met with the sound of Captain Anderson's pistol firing, and before Feuilly can even finish his own thought he jumps in front the other slave, feeling a bullet strike the edge of his shoulder. It doesn't lodge, and in the moment Feuilly cannot tell how deep it is, but blood pours out and he hits his head on the deck, and the last thing Feuilly hears before losing consciousness is the sound of a canon-ball slamming into the side of the East India ship.

When Feuilly awakes, blinking the darkness from his eyes, the first sensation he feels is a sharp, pulsating pain in his shoulder. Once his vision clears he realizes he has no idea where he is; this room is unfamiliar, yet if the gentle rocking is any indication, he's on a ship. He tries sitting up, turning his head when he hears a voice.

"Easy there," comes the voice of the pirate captain from...yesterday? Feuilly isn't sure what day it is, or what time. "You should stay laying down. It was largely a flesh wound, but it needs time to heal, and I wouldn't recommend moving your arm too much or you'll start bleeding again."

"Why am I here?" Feuilly asks, guarded, wrapping his free arm around himself. "What happened?"

"That wretched captain shot you," the man answers, and although Feuilly is tempted to relax at the benevolent glimmer in his eyes, he holds his posture. "When you jumped in the way of one of the slaves we were trying to rescue."

The moment comes rushing back to Feuilly, and his head pounds with the memories, leaving an ache.

"Are they all right?" Feuilly asks. "Did you get them out?"

"We did," the man said. "They're safely aboard. Once the firing began the East India ship didn't stand a chance against us with two of their canons out. They surrendered fairly quickly."

"You didn't leave me behind," Feuilly says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Of course not," the captain answers, putting a tentative hand on Feuilly's chest, trying to ease him into lying back down.

Feuilly jumps and the man pulls his hand away, though the he looks understanding rather than angry.

"Who are you?" Feuilly asks. "I mean to say..."

The captain's words are cut off by the door opening, a girl about three years Feuilly's junior coming in, a smile lighting up her face.

"Oh you're all right!" she exclaims, long curls bouncing as she clasps her hands in delighted relief.

"Cosette here has been taking excellent of you over the past day," the captain says.

"Oh," Feuilly says, eyes widening as he turns toward the girl. "I...thank you."

"Of course," she says, and something in her intelligent gaze as she surveys him speaks to a shared experience. "How are you feeling?"

Oh I..." Feuilly hesitates. No one's asked him that question since the hurricane snuffed out his family, and he finds he doesn't know quite how to respond in the midst of all these new things at once. "My shoulder smarts, a bit."

"A bit?" Cosette asks, a smirk forming on her lips. "I'd think a bullet might do more than smart."

"Well," Feuilly says, a smile forming on his lips despite himself. "I admit the pain is still a bit sharp. I... have I been unconscious for an entire day?"

"You woke up a few times," Cosette says. "You don't remember?"

"No," Feuilly admits. "But thank you again. Both of you."

Cosette's smile widens. "I need to go tell Mama you're awake! She was worried."

With that she winks at Feuilly, kisses the captain on the cheek, and walks out of the room light on her feet.

"Your daughter?" Feuilly asks the captain as Cosette exits.

"My adopted daughter," he responds, eyes lighting up as the door closes. "It's a bit of a complicated story, but her mother is my dearest friend and quartermaster, and we rescued Cosette from slavery, and ever since she's referred to me as 'Papa Valjean'. I couldn't refuse her, of course."

The word Valjean sits in Feuilly's still muddled brain for a few moments, tossing and turning in his memory. Surely it couldn't...that would be too coincidental, too simple, too...he cannot even complete the thought.

"Son?" the captain asks, concerned. The captain named Valjean.

"What did you say your name was?" Feuilly asks, soft.

"Well, the world knows me as Captain Fauchelevent," the man says, drawing out his words slowly as if catching on to Feuilly’s thoughts. "But my real name is Jean Valjean. Though don't go spreading that about, if you please," he says, teasing lightly.

Feuilly stares ahead of him, feeling his breaths growing shallow. Valjean stares at him for a moment, something like a revelation sparking in his eyes, and when his voice finally emerges, it's cracked in half but the pieces are lifted up with hope.

"What's your name?" he asks, desperate. "Please...please tell me your name."

"Jahni," Feuilly responds, finally looking back up and seeing tears glistening in Valjean's eyes. "Jahni Feuilly." He pauses a moment, emotion gathering in his chest. He remembers his mother's stories of his uncle, sent to prison for stealing food when he was just a year old. He was more a myth than a man sometimes, and he lived somewhere in the back of Feuilly's brain, though he'd never in a thousand years expected this.

 _"He'll come back to us," his mother said repeatedly. "He'll come back to_ _us_. _We'll see him again, Jahni. Just you wait, my darling."_

"My mother..." Feuilly tries, but cannot quite force the words out.

"Joliette," Valjean finishes for him. “And your father Henri.”

"Yes," Feuilly says, and now the tears come spilling out of his eyes unbidden, and he wipes them away, looking away from his uncle. He doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know what to say, he...

"I went looking for you," Valjean says into the silence. "When I escaped with Fantine, we went to Barbados and I went looking for all of you. The neighbor she said everyone had been lost."

"Yes," Feuilly repeats, feeling a distinct pressure in his chest. He's never really spoken aloud about the loss of his family because there was never anyone to speak to after it happened, so the words, although they've resounded in his head countless times, sound strange coming out of his mouth. "The hurricane. It's a miracle I survived...I..."

Valjean reaches his hand out, hesitating a few inches away from Feuilly's face, asking for permission. Feuilly meets his eyes again in answer, and when his uncle's thumb brushes against his cheek he can scarcely take the emotion it evokes for how much it reminds him of his mother.

"I looked for you," Valjean continues, drawing his hand away. "But there was so little to go on that every trail I followed was for naught."

"You looked for me?" Feuilly asks, his voice inching up higher.

Valjean looks at him again, and there is nothing less than love in his eyes.

"How could I do anything else?"

Before Feuilly even really thinks on it he reaches out with his good arm, grasping Valjean's sleeve and holding onto it. After a moment his uncle's hand comes down, covering his own with immense warmth. For the first time in years, Feuilly feels protected. Safe. He's so used to protecting himself that he scarcely knows how to process those feelings, so they simply sit, saturated in the moment.

"You were sold into the slave trade?" Valjean says, anger putting a chink into his voice.

"About two years ago," Feuilly says. "I was getting work on ships, but my freedom papers were washed away, and well. You know how that can go. And you, a pirate. I've heard rumors of you." At this Feuilly grins, exhausted from the torrent of emotions, boundless joy mixed with apprehension about losing this long lost man who's been a legend instead of a physical presence in his life because of a cruel system that punished poverty.

Valjean grins in return, and it occurs to Feuilly that he sees shades of his own face in his uncle's.

"A pirate named Myriel gave Fantine and I positions on his crew," Valjean explains. "He's the one who taught me everything I know, though we've expanded what we do a bit. He was...he was one of the best people I could have ever had the honor of knowing. He helped Fantine reunite with Cosette several years ago, they'd both been enslaved as well. And before he died the crew elected me as captain. I've been doing my best, since then, to get in the way of those forces that seek to do harm to others."

"Like that East India ship?"

"Rather like that," Valjean says, chuckling. "Though as irony would have it, Fantine and I were once greatly helped by the wife of an East India captain. One never knows, I imagine."

Silence falls between them and Feuilly looks away a moment, though he cannot quite let go of his uncle's sleeve.

"Oh my boy," Valjean says, almost to himself, and Feuilly feels his heart grow full to bursting. “You were my last memory of home. Before I left that night, you reached out and took hold of my finger from your crib. Everyone else was asleep, but you were there to bid me farewell.”

Feuilly’s grateful to the door opening at that very moment, otherwise he feared he might very well break down. He breathes in, looking up to see Cosette entering with the woman Feuilly assumes is Fantine. She looks back and forth between them, obviously noticing the atmosphere and the tear stains on both their faces.

"What's...is something the matter?" Fantine asks. "I was so relieved you were all right," she says, directing her words at Feuilly.

"Fantine, Cosette," Valjean says, turning toward them with a shaky smile. "I'd like you both to meet my nephew, Jahni Feuilly."

Both their eyes widen and Feuilly cannot help it: he laughs.  

"Your... your nephew?" Fantine asks. "Oh my goodness."

To Feuilly's surprise this woman he's just met throws her arms around him, enveloping him in an embrace.

"Mama," Cosette reprimands. "Jahni's shoulder."

"Oh!" Fantine says, pulling back. "I'm so sorry I only...I feel as if I've known you for years. We looked for you."

"So my uncle was saying," Feuilly answers, clearing his throat against the tide of emotion. "Thank you for that, and thank you for saving me now. I am…I am so grateful."

"It was our pleasure," Fantine assures him, sitting down on the arm of Valjean's chair and taking Cosette's hand. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say that you have a home here, though perhaps you should confirm that with the captain."

She arches one eyebrow at Valjean, who mirror the gesture, fondness evident in his face.

"You'll get used to their banter," Cosette says with an affectionate shake of her head, sitting on the edge of Feuilly's cot. She can’t be more than ten or eleven, Feuilly thinks, yet like him, she is beyond her years.

"Yes," Valjean says, reaching out for Feuilly's hand, leaving his palm open so Feuilly has the option to take it or not. Feuilly does, though he sees his hand trembling. "You absolutely have a home here. With us."

Though part of Feuilly’s rational brain wants to think of a dozen reasons why these words might fail, his heart listens to the promise in his uncle's voice.

_Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Up next will be Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly's introductions!


	8. Book I (Beginnings): Section 3, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When his fellow naval officer accidentally grazes Bossuet's arm with a drunken gunshot, Joly finds the friend he's been looking for. When they meet Grantaire a year later after landing in jail overnight for a tavern brawl they didn't intend to start, their trio is complete and they head to Nassau, home of the new Pirate Republic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So an important note for this chapter to prevent confusion: I know there's a big time jump here, but the point of this first Book (there will be three Books in total) is to explain the backstory of how each of the different groups of characters met/their backstory, etc. The beginning of Book II will jump back again, and we'll catch up with what happened to Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac after they ran away from Port Royal. I hope that makes sense! If not, feel free to ask me questions. Though I expect it will make MORE sense as the fic progresses.

**Book I (Beginnings): Section 3, Part 1**

**Saint-Lucia. 1709.**

Joly hadn’t wanted to go to this tavern in the first place. He is not on principle, opposed to taverns. In fact he enjoys them, but he does enjoy the company of his fellow naval officers, which puts a damper on the entire situation. The moment he hears the gunshot, the feeling only intensifies. There’s a small, almost casual cry of pain mixed with the sound of his commanding officer’s voice ringing through the room.

“Deschamps!” Captain Mercier shouts, turning to the offending man. “What in the devil is wrong with you?”

Joly’s eyes dart over to the lieutenant-colonel, who holds his gun in his hand with a guilty expression, a weapon he’d waved drunkenly around mere moments before. It’s a reckless action below an officer of the French Navy, though Joly is quickly learning that these men do not always behave as he might have expected a year ago. His eyes land on the tavern worker, the source of the cry of pain. Out of instinct Joly jumps up from his seat, nearly knocking over the half-full drink in front of him.

“Let me see,” Joly says, abrupt but gentle, motioning for the man to remove his fingers from the wound. At first glance it looks like a shallow flesh wound across the side of the man’s arm. The bullet dashed across and shattered the glass behind it, haphazard as the man wielding it. The man draws his fingers away, and Joly hears the smile in his voice when he speaks, a small thread of pain weaving through it, though he seems less concerned than Joly would expect.

“And who might you be?” the man asks, and Joly looks up briefly, seeing him raise his eyebrows, the smile he heard a moment ago still playing at his lips. He’s not completely bald, Joly notices, though for so young a man he’s fast approaching it.

“Elliot Joly,” Joly responds. “The surgeon on the French naval frigate Astrée. So is the officer is whose bullet just grazed your arm. Though you don’t seem as concerned as I’d expect,” he continues, feeling immediately comfortable in the other man’s presence for reasons he can’t lay a finger on given he’s known him a matter of seconds, though there’s something naturally friendly in his expression.

“Well it looks like the sort that might bleed, but mostly for show than any true danger,” he says, and Joly finds he cannot help but smile. “I’m Benoit Lesgle, by the way. It means blessed, although,” he says with a laugh. “I’m not sure how true that is at the moment.”

Joly opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted.

“Joly!” Captain Mercier shouts. “Step away.”

“Sir,” Joly protests, still polite, but unable to keep the frustration out of his voice entirely. Though he usually tries to make the best of any situation, he’s becoming more disillusioned with the French Navy that he ever bargained for. “This man needs assistance.”

“It’s a mere flesh wound,” the captain says with a wave of his hand.

“Even flesh wounds can grow infected, sir,” Joly says, protesting a second time.

“Joly,” Captain Mercier says, voice growing firmer. “I order you to step away from this man. You are standing on shaky ground as it is. He could be nothing more than an escaped slave, for all you know.”

Joly frowns, clenching his fists. A few weeks ago after a man received lashes Joly attempted to treat his wounds, but was ordered to stand down by the captain. It was against the captain’s protocol, he was told, to treat a man who was under punishment, no matter his physical injuries.  Before that, Joly was found tending to an ill slave who was aboard, and was instructed by the captain not to waste supplies, though Joly slipped him the medicine in the middle of the night anyway. As he’d watched the slave leave the ship the next day Joly wasn’t sure he’d live for long with that wretched cough and lack of time for Joly to sneak a proper examination. Joly remembers well how heartsick he’d felt, watching a dying man walk away with no power to save him or even make him comfortable. _Cargo_ , was the word the captain used, and it still made Joly’s blood run hot. In this situation, Joly thinks, Captain Mercier simply doesn’t want to admit the culpability of one of his more favored men.

“Clean and wrap that up,” Joly says in a whisper to Lesgle as he steps away. “I know it doesn’t look serious but one never knows with these things.”

Lesgle nods, a twinkle in his eyes as he covers his wound with his hand once more, wincing at the pain.

“Out, Joly!” Captain Mercier barks, grasping Joly’s arm and hauling him outside, most of the men following them out and avoiding their eyes.

“What have I told you about treating people without my express permission, Joly?” he asks, removing his hands from Joly’s sleeve and standing before him, tall and intimidating.

“I thought that only applied on the ship, sir,” Joly says, sincere but not without a hint of sass he can’t quite keep at bay. “I saw a man injured, hurt by one of our own men, and it was my instinct to help. That’s what I was trained for. Captain Edwards encouraged it, when I sailed with him.”

From the way Captain Mercier’s eyes narrow, Joly knows instantaneously he’s made a mistake in comparing the two captains.

“You are not under Captain Edwards’ command any longer,” Captain Mercier responds. “And you will do as I say, given that you’ve been on my ship nearly six months now. You are good at what you do, and I’d hate to have to put in a complaint about you.”

There’s the hint of a threat in his voice that Joly doesn’t miss, so he straightens his posture, squaring his shoulders and keeping the anger out of his voice.

“Understood sir,” he says, though in his head he’s already planning to come back and check on the tavern worker’s arm later, if he can slip away. They’re docked here until morning, and most of the men will be far too occupied in activities in which Joly had no interest in partaking.

“On your way then,” Captain Mercier says, nodding sternly at him and going back in the direction of the tavern from which Deschamps has still not emerged. If Joly weren’t so angry at the captain and in such disagreement with his practices on the ship, he might feel sorry for him; Deschamps is his brother in law, his commission purchased for him by a wealthy father, and although plenty of the men aboard could say the same, Deschamps is far from a competent sailor, and Joly suspects he was sent aboard this ship in order that he might learn some discipline. Why they gave him an officer’s position in light of his near constant irresponsibility, Joly isn’t sure.

Joly has no desire to go back to the ship and he cannot go back into the tavern yet, so he walks along by the shore, slipping off his shoes and dipping his feet in the water, unbuttoning the stiff buttons of his uniform coat and shrugging it off, draping it over his arm instead. For the first six months of his naval service he’d found a level of satisfaction if not happiness; his parents long gone in a bout of illness that swept Paris when he was fourteen, he’d lived with his kindly though elderly uncle since, and his talk of his naval career had inspired Joly to pursue the same, though through medical training rather than as a regular sailor. His uncle died two months or so into Joly’s naval service, leaving him a small house in France and a small amount of money, but his death made Joly cling to the potential of a naval career even more. He enjoyed sailing, though found he did not find many close compatriots among the men, though his first commanding officer, Captain Edwards, was kind. But he’d been transferred when the Astrée lost its only surgeon. Since Joly had a bit of traditional doctor’s training as well as surgical, although he was new he was sought after. He had far less freedom to treat under Captain Mercier, who hardly seemed to notice most of the rank and file sailors as Captain Edwards had.

He stops his stride, looking out at the water as the sun sets, an orange light striking the edge of the small waves and turning the almost clear ocean water red. Seeing the varying shades of water in the Caribbean never stopped amazing Joly. He was so used to the murky Atlantic waters that he never tired of the way the water could turn from a blue-tinged clear, to almost turquoise, to a deep navy further out.  But if he’s honest with himself, he’s not happy in the navy. He wants to help people and from where’s he standing, he’s not allowed to do that. He sits down on the shore, leaning against a rock, letting the water lap over his feet and watching it pull back again. Here, he feels free.

An hour or so passes, and Joly emerges from his half dreaming, half dozing state, rising from his perch and dusting off his pants. He dries his feet as best he can, dressing properly again, though his breeches and jacket are rather rumpled. He’d watched Captain Mercier head back to the ship from where he sat, so he walks back to the tavern, hoping the man Deschamps shot is still there. He reassures himself that it was an incredibly shallow flesh wound, but nerves still flare in the pit of his stomach, largely, he thinks, because he’d gotten pulled away before he could even survey the injury properly. When he enters the tavern it’s about half-full, but devoid of naval officers, at least as far as he can tell.

“You’re back,” he hears a voice say, looking up to see the same friendly smile he’d seen earlier, laced through with a bit of pleased bewilderment. “I hadn’t expected you.”

“Well I saw my captain wasn’t here,” Joly says quietly. “I thought I’d come back and check on you.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Lesgle insists. “And I’m all right. Wrapped it like you said, and there’s only a bit of pain.”

“There’s no navy men in here as far as I can see,” Joly says, squinting out into the darkened, candlelit room. “And I wanted to make sure. Is there somewhere we can go so I might look at it?”

Lesgle nods, making eye contact with the other tavern worker and indicating that he’s heading to what looks like a small storage room off to the side.

“Since my captain wouldn’t, I’ll apologize on behalf of our officer that shot you,” Joly says. “My captain _should_ have apologized.”

“A rebel in the navy then?” Lesgle asks, quirking one eyebrow and smirking.

Joly laughs, feeling nervous and as if someone’s looking over his shoulder, though he still feels that unexplainable comfort in Lesgle’s presence that he felt earlier. “I don’t know about that,” he says. “Simply…well. I am unhappy with my current assignment. Might I?” he asks, gesturing at the wrapping.

“Certainly,” Lesgle says. “I wrapped it myself, though I’m sure it’s a shoddy job.”

“Not too bad,” Joly responds, smiling before he focuses on his work, undoing the bandage. “A bit too loose, perhaps. But it’s difficult to tie off your own.”

He surveys the small wound, which has long ceased bleeding and so far shows no sign of any infection, though even if it had, Joly thinks now, it likely would have been minimal. He feels a bit silly for worrying as _much_ as he had, but anger still flares in the pit of his stomach at the injustice of the captain pulling him away.

“It looks just fine,” Joly says, taking the fresh bandage Lesgle hands him and wrapping it back around. “It’s an even smaller wound than I thought, but keep it wrapped and keep an eye on it.”

“Thank you,” Lesgle says. “I know the risk you took to come back and look at so small a thing.”

“It’s not small to me,” Joly says, finishing the job and standing up straight again. “My former captain wouldn’t have treated you in such a way, but Captain Mercier, well. Let’s just say this isn’t the first time that has happened.”

Lesgle seems to sense the conversation turning into something more than the wound and leans against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest with a curious gaze in his eyes.

“So what brought you to the navy?” he asks. “If I’m correct I detect a Parisian accent?”

“Yes,” Joly says with a grin. “And my uncle. My parents died when I was fourteen and I moved in with him, though he died about two months into my service. All of his stories about the navy drew me in, and I’d always been interested in medicine, so I combined the two. I’ve only been in about a year. Six months on another ship, then six months on the current one. So, it is always so…exciting in this tavern?”

“It gets rather interesting some days,” Lesgle says with a chuckle. “Though most of the more, shall we say _lawless_ crowd dispersed until you boys set sail again. Though I must say I’ve never been shot before, though I suppose it’s not unheard of in my line of work.”

“How long have you worked here?” Joly asks.

“About seven months,” Lesgle replies. “I roamed a bit doing work on ships before, but nothing ever quite panned out, you see. I lost my parents as well, my mother when I was fifteen, my father just two years ago. They were both free blacks; my father was trained as a blacksmith, actually. He even trained me, but I’m sure you can guess how difficult it might be to have someone hire me.”

“It’s absurd,” Joly replies, voice full of irritation. “As it happens the craft of the swords most of the men on the Astrée carry seems shoddy. Not that I’m an expert, but I’m sure your work is better.”

Lesgle’ grin widens. “You don’t even know me, how could you know that?”

“I just feel certain it’s true,” Joly responds, sharing the grin. “Though you seem content with the situation, even if you’re unable to use your trade.”

“I would prefer that I could,” Lesgle answers with a good natured shrug. “But I have employment, money to put food on my table. It’s more than many others can say.”

The words _so many people who share my skin are enslaved_ hang unspoken at the end of his sentence, but Joly hears them anyway. He’s about to respond when they both hear a loud voice enter the tavern.

“One of men is in here,” Joly hears Captain Mercier’s voice say. “My medical officer. Medium height, auburn hair. I need him immediately.”

There’s some soft murmuring Joly cannot make out, then the sound of footsteps coming toward them and he only has a moment to share a glance with Bossuet before the door to the storage room flies open, revealing Captain Mercier’s enraged face and the slightly ashamed face of one of his fellow sailors. He must have been in the tavern Joly thinks, and he hadn’t seen him in the weak light.

“Joly,” Captain Mercier growls. “What did I say? This is the third time you have blatantly disobeyed me. Outside. _Now_.”

“Sir,” Joly tries, keeping his voice firm even if his hands shake. He will not show this man his fear if he can help it, even if he knows full well what discipline means on Captain Mercier’s ship.

Captain Mercier seizes the sleeve of his wrinkled jacket and hauls him upward.

“He was only trying to make certain my wound was healing,” Bossuet protests, and Joly hears the flash of anger in his tone. “What could be so wrong about that? It’s his profession.”

“It is about his obedience to me, his commanding officer,” Captain Mercier snaps.

Without further conversation he pulls Joly by his sleeve out of the room and the tavern, not letting go until they are once more aboard the ship, and Joly’s face inflames when he sees a few men standing on deck, witness to the captain humiliating him. He’s thankful at least, that most of the men are out on the island.

“What did I say about giving assistance to that man?” Captain Mercier asks, not shouting but the condescension is clear.

“Deschamps shot him,” Joly insists, knowing it will only get him in further trouble but not caring. “We should be apologizing to him. Doesn’t the French Navy care about its reputation?”

“That is precisely why I told you to stay away,” Captain Mercier replies, standing closer now. “We cannot have it known that our men…”

“Are capable of being reckless?” Joly says before he can stop himself.

“You will learn to obey me,” Captain Mercier says. “This entire ship is built on that. Five lashes,” he continues, breaking eye contact with Joly and gesturing toward the quartermaster. “Just enough to teach him a lesson he’ll remember.”

Joly’s stomach pricks with nerves, knowing there’s pain ahead, but the only lesson he’s learning now is the striking notion that he’s not meant for the French Navy.

* * *

An hour later Joly lays on his side in the uncomfortable bed in the quarters he shares with three others. As the medical officer aboard he’s spared sleeping in a hammock, and right now he’s thankful they’re all out enjoying their last night in town before they set sail in the morning. The five lashes were over quickly, and he suspects the quartermaster, who was tasked with doling them out, went easier than he might have on another man. For all the Captain’s harshness toward him, the quartermaster has always been a bit kinder to Joly. 

 _It could have been worse_ , he tells himself. _It could have been ten or fifteen or twenty_. He’s certainly seen men receive as much, including the man he was barred from treating. But those words don’t stop the stinging fire on his skin, and he cannot even take a proper look at them. If they get infected, if they…

 _No_ , he tells his mind. We are not even going to breach that topic. _You will be all right._

He thinks again of Lesgle, not regretting his actions in the least. The memory of his friendly, easygoing smile eases the pain for a moment, even if Joly knows it’s ridiculous. He’d just met the man! Yet he cannot help but feel somehow, as if Lesgle understands him inherently, even if he couldn’t explain why. He turns over with effort, seeing some of the residual blood staining the bedcovers. Something about the sight of it makes him wish he could escape this ship, but what would he do out in the Caribbean alone? Deserters were harshly punished, and if he was caught…

He’d sworn his loyalty to the French Navy and yet now here he lies, injured and unable to help those in need unless he has the captain’s permission. He remembers sitting in his room at his uncle’s home shortly after he moved in, feeling heavy with grief over his parents, tears rolling down his cheeks, when his uncle walked in with a box of Joly’s father’s old mementos and things from childhood, a few of his uncle’s Naval papers and remembrances mixed in with them. Fascinated, Joly begged for stories, and his Uncle Martin complied, wrapping an arm around his nephew’s shoulders and regaling him with grand stories of his time at sea. Joly had always loved stories, and now he wishes more than anything that his reality had lived up to them. Perhaps the moment simply hadn’t yet arrived, but the throbbing wounds on his back pierce his bubble of hope with a grief he doesn’t like entertaining.

A few more minutes pass and he hears a knock at the door, softer than usual. He gets up, throwing his shirt on and trying to ignore the burn of the fabric on his wounds. He opens it and jumps, surprised at the person on the other side.

“Lesgle!” he whispers. “What…how…”

“One of your compatriots fell asleep in the tavern,” Lesgle explains. “He hung his jacket on his chair and I well…I put it on hoping I could sneak aboard and check on you.  With this and the hat obscuring my face, well. None of the men seemed to look twice. And it’s dark besides.”

“We’ve been at sea a few weeks guarding some merchant ships on their journey,” Joly tells him. “Normally they’re more competent, though I’m thankful that’s not the case this time. But if you get caught…”

“Come with me,” Lesgle says with that same smile from earlier, though this time encouragement shines through.  

“What?” Joly asks, feeling his heart racing faster. “What do you…”

“Leave this ship,” Lesgle presses. “They’ve clearly hurt you, they don’t appreciate you here.” He pauses, eyes catching on the way Joly holds himself so that the fabric of his shirt makes as little contact as possible with his skin. “What did they do to you?”

“Five lashes,” Joly answers. “It could have been worse.”

“It’s cruel,” Lesgle asserts. “You deserve better.”

“How do you know that?” Joly asks. “You’ve just met me.”

At this, some of the anger in his eyes ebbs, replaced with determination. “You risked punishment to come back and look at my wound. Me, a stranger. I think that tells me everything I’d need to know about you.”

“I felt…” Joly says, stumbling over his words. “I felt like I’d made a friend when I first encountered you.”

“So did I,” Lesgle says, breathing a sigh of relief.

“But I don’t know how to just desert the navy,” Joly says, lowering his voice so that it’s barely audible now. “I swore allegiance, I…” but even as he speaks them, the words trail off, sounding hollow.

“And this is what you get in return,” Lesgle says, looking him in the eyes. “We will find a way for you to use your profession for good, I promise you.”

“We?” Joly asks, hope tinging his voice.

“Well,” Lesgle says, lips curving upward again. “I wouldn’t very well convince you to desert and then abandon you, would I? We’re in this together.”

Joly looks at Lesgle, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, feeling his decision piece together in his mind, feeling sure even if this is the most dangerous thing he’s ever undertaken, even if it’s rash and abrupt and new.

“How will we escape the ship?” Joly says. “I’m already in trouble and if we’re caught…”

“It’s cloudy,” Lesgle answers. “No moon in sight so it’s almost pitch black save a few stars peeking through. Orion is particularly pesky. But even that isn’t enough light to see properly by and most of the men are off the ship, it’s just enough to light our way. I also brought this,” he says, lifting up his arm and showing Joly the cloak he’s draped over the top. “It’s risky, but I believe we can do it.”

“You’re putting yourself at risk for me,” Joly says. “You could get in trouble, lose your job.” He stops for a moment, images of the slave trade that became far more real since his year in the Caribbean flashing before his eyes. He knows as well as anyone that even people with freedom papers can get swept up into the slave trade. “Or worse. And I…I only have a small amount of money and to leave my source of employment...” he trails off, the words tangling in his mind and making the breath catch in his throat.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Lesgle says, gentle now. “I won’t make you come, of course. I only,” he stops, surveying Joly’s face. “I sensed something when you came in to look at my wound, I sensed that you wanted an escape, perhaps I was…”

“No,” Joly says, interrupting him. “You weren’t wrong. I just…I am so used to following a path, to following the rules and then I found out the rules were not worthy of following. Not these rules, anyway.”  

He meets Lesgle’s eyes for a moment, steadying himself. Part of him feels guilty for breaking his pledge of loyalty to the navy, but his heart tells him he must maintain his loyalty to the morals and ideals he holds, and he’s found he cannot do so while in the navy’s ranks.

“Let’s go,” he says, the ghost of a laugh in voice. Cheer and anxiety fill him up simultaneously, his smile matching Lesgle’s own.

Lesgle hands him the cloak, watching as Joly seizes a bag and puts a few things carefully inside: two changes of clothes, his small pouch of money, his journal, a few medical supplies, and a few personal mementos he’d brought along with him, memories of his parents and his uncle. He slides his boots on, and gingerly slides on his non-uniform jacket, which presses uncomfortably against the skin of his back. He puts on his hat, then the cloak, hopefully obscuring his face if anyone spots them.

“Let’s hope my tendency toward bad luck doesn’t get in our way,” Lesgle says with a chuckle, and Joly laughs in response, clasping his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound as a snort escapes. He hardly knows what he’s doing, he only knows that it feels _right._

They walk quietly up from below finding the deck almost deserted. The man keeping watch from the crow’s nest appears asleep, and Joly thinks darkly that he’ll likely receive lashes for that error. It’s so dark that Lesgle reaches out and takes his hand, leading the way so they can keep track of each other. He stops abruptly just by the gangplank, hearing laughter nearby, but it’s just some sailors walking near the shore, likely drunk. They dash down the gangplank and towards town.

“We need to run,” Lesgle says. “Can you run, with your injury?”

“Yes,” Joly says, feeling the situation instilling a renewed sense of confidence within him. “Yes, I think so.”

Lesgle keeps hold of his hand and they start running, the scent of the salty air sharp in Joly’s nose. Even as the wounds on his back sting, Joly feels free, safe somehow, here with Lesgle. After a few minutes they reach a building of what looks like rented rooms, and Lesgle opens the front door, running smack into an older woman.

“Lesgle,” she says, jovial. “Who’s your friend?”

“A sailor I met recently,” Lesgle answers with a charming grin. “Got into a bit of a fight, I’m afraid. Need to patch him up.”

The woman raises one eyebrow as her eyes land on the naval insignia pinned to Joly’s jacket that he hadn’t thought to remove, but a smile flickers on her lips. For a moment Joly thinks she reads the situation and will surely turn him in, but her expression remains friendly.

“Ah well do be careful lads,” she says. “If you need any supplies I have some, just come knock.”

“Thank you Madame Wright,” Lesgle says. “We will.”

With that they continue up a flight of stairs and Lesgle opens the door to his own room, shutting and locking it firmly behind them. The situation is undeniably one of the most serious Joly’s ever found himself in, but for some reason, the stress he supposes, the moment he locks eyes with Lesgle they both burst out laughing, the sound echoing against the walls and back in Joly’s soul.

“I was so worried she would turn us in,” Joly says, regaining control of himself, though now his ribs ache as well.

“My landlady?” Lesgle asks. “She’s seen far more nefarious characters around this boardinghouse. She’s very kind, but doesn’t get involved in other people’s business unless asked, so you should be safe here.”

There’s a pause as they take the moment in, and Joly looks over, a sense of gratitude overwhelming him.

“Thank you,” he says. “I…I don’t even know what I’m doing…what I’m thinking, but you were right. I wanted out of there. But if they find me…”

“They won’t,” Lesgle says.

“They do roll call before we set sail,” Joly says. “If they go to the tavern, ask your employer where you live…”

“The tavern doesn’t even open until noon,” Lesgle answers. “And besides, my employer doesn’t know where I live.” He smirks, and Joly feels his heart settle, though he’ll feel better once the ship sets sail. “We’ll have to be careful of course,” Lesgle continues. “I know punishments for deserters are harsh. But it’ll be all right.”

Joly nods, slipping off the cloak and hat, then carefully removing his jacket, feeling Lesgle’s concerned eyes on him.

“Would you let me take a look at those?” he asks. “I know you can’t get a good look at them yourself, and the pain is making you a bit pale, I think.”

“Thank you,” Joly says in response. “There are some bandages and salve in my bag there.”

Lesgle rifles through, finding the mentioned items and then heads into the small room off the side where he must sleep, coming back out with a cloth, a bowl, and what looks suspiciously like two glasses and a bottle of rum.

“For the pain,” he says, holding up one glass and pouring rum inside.

“Bless you,” Joly says, taking it gratefully. He takes a sip then removes his shirt, the material sticking to the blood on his skin.

Lesgle pours some water into the small bowl and dampens the cloth, sitting behind Joly and starting his work. Joly flinches the moment the cold cloth hits his skin.

“Apologies,” Lesgle says. “I’m sure it hurts a great deal.”

“It stings,” Joly admits. “And the skin feels raw. But I’ll try to move a bit less.”

“Is there anything in particular I should do?” Lesgle asks.

“Just wipe the blood away as best you can,” Joly answers. “And then put some of the salve on it. Then we’ll have to wrap the bandages around, which I couldn’t do on my own. I very much appreciate this.”

“It’s the least I could do,” Lesgle says. “I can’t believe that captain would do this to you just for coming back to help me.”

“I disobeyed him,” Joly says, disliking the bitterness in his voice. “That kind of punishment is commonplace. Less so on the other ship I used to sail on, but very much so with Captain Mercier. And as far as I can tell, the navy in general. No matter which European nationality you’re discussing.”

“Ridiculous,” Lesgle says, wringing out the cloth into the bowl, Joly’s dried blood making the water turn a pinkish brown. “From what I’ve heard pirates treat their own men better.”

“ _Pirates_?” Joly asks, voice going up in disbelief.

“People here on the island talk about what’s happened on Nassau,” Lesgle says. “They’ve started calling it a ‘pirate republic’. Most of them used to be privateers, apparently, but they turned pirate.”

“It used to belong to the English?” Joly says, clarifying his memory. “Three years ago it was largely abandoned by the English, if I remember correctly? Even people in France were speaking of it.”

“Yes,” Lesgle says. “Apparently lots of ex-Naval and merchant sailors end up there, and Africans can sail equally under pirate colors. Or that’s what I’ve heard, anyway. Hard to tell tall tales from reality when it comes to these things.”

“It is,” Joly says, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks as Lesgle’ gentle hands put the salve on his wounds. He takes another long gulp of the rum. “Sounds like something to see. Do you keep up with all those pirate stories?”

“I’d have thought you did,” Lesgle teases. “No battle action in the navy?”

“The ships I was on were small,” Joly replies. “Mostly doing guarding of French colonies against aggression from Britain or Spain. I did see some action in that respect, but neither of my ships were attacked by pirates. There’s been an uptick in pirate attacks on naval ships, just on larger ones generally, and ones that were out at sea for longer periods. Lots of trade route disruptions, apparently. Some even turning over slave ships and setting the people free.”

“Perhaps we should go,” Lesgle says, the sound of an adventure in his voice. “To Nassau I mean. When we can. Now, about this bandage…”

“I should stand,” Joly says. “We just need to wrap it around a few times and cover the wounds. They’re not as bad as they might have been, but I don’t want an infection.”

“As well you shouldn’t,” Lesgle says, a twinkle in his eyes.

After a few minutes the bandages are wrapped around and Joly’s wearing one of the fresh shirts he’d brought with him. He and Lesgle sit at the tiny table in the center of the room with a second helping of rum, and Joly thinks that just this morning he never would have predicted in a thousand years how much his life would change by evening. He hears the murmur of the ocean outside, and though anxiety pricks at him, it doesn’t overwhelm.

“To our future adventures,” Lesgle says, raising his glass. “And to new friends.”

“Hear hear,” Joly agrees, raising his own.

As the two glasses clink together, Joly’s heart lifts with them.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1710.**

Of all the things Lesgle thought would land him in jail, an accidental fight in a tavern wasn’t one of them. He made a point of avoiding those brawls as a rule; he could hold a sword well enough given that he forged them, but he was not particularly apt at hand to hand combat.

“We didn’t start the brawl,” Joly protests from beside him. “That East India officer did.”

“That East India officer is the sailing master on Commodore Michel Enjolras’ crew,” the naval officer who broke up the fight responds in a cutting tone. “As he is one of the most respected men in the region, so too is his crew. So pardon me if I take the word of an upstanding man over two scoundrels.”

“Someone bumped into me,” Lesgle insists. “So I spilled my drink on that man accidentally. He thought I was starting something, so he swung at me. Then it all devolved from there. My friend was simply trying to get the man off me, and then all of his compatriots joined in. It was a misunderstanding.”

“I’m sure,” the man responds, sarcasm in his tone as he pulls out a large set of keys and opens the door to the jail. “Sleep off your liquor, and we’ll see how a few days in jail suits you.”

“We are _not_ intoxicated,” Joly exclaims. “We didn’t even have the chance to take the first sip of our drinks!”

The man tosses them into a cell already occupied by a man sleeping in the corner, slamming the door closed behind them, keys clanging against the bars as he turns the key in the lock.

“Like I said,” he replies, turning at the sound of someone calling at the top of the stairs. “Sleep it off.”

Lesgle and Joly watch him go, dashing up the steps, his voice still floating toward them.

“Just a couple of drunk scoundrels, Commander Javert,” he says. “Starting a fight with Commodore Enjolras’ crew. Nothing to worry about.”

Their voices fade as they walk away and Lesgle turns to Joly with a sigh.

“Not exactly how I expected our day to go,” Lesgle says, eyeing his friend. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, fine,” Joly says, waving his hand, though he looks a bit nervous as he gazes around at the cell, though a smile plays at his lips. “Though I was just thinking that I’m glad this is an English colony and not a French one, or my um… _previous_ association with the French Navy might be an issue.”

“Don’t think the English would mind a deserter of the French Navy,” Lesgle whispers in amusement. “Given the on-again, off-again animosity.”

“True,” Joly says, sliding down against the wall and sitting down. “How long do you suppose they’ll leave us in here?”

“Not certain,” Lesgle answers, sitting down beside him. “He said a few days, but I suspect these cells fill up quickly with people who got into tavern brawls on purpose.”

Joly laughs, and Lesgle is pleased that it chases the anxiety out of his friend’s eyes, replacing it with the joy to which he’s become accustomed.

“Who do you suppose our new friend is?” Joly asks, raising one eyebrow. “He hasn’t even awoken. Do you suppose…” he trails off as is his habit when thinking, and leans over, placing two fingers carefully on the man’s next. “Well he’s alive, thankfully, I…”

A shout from the formerly sleeping man cuts Joly’s sentence off as he removes his fingers jumps back, shouting as well.

“What the devil!” the man shouts, eyes flying open and surveying the two of them.

“My apologies,” Joly says, recovering himself, and elbowing Lesgle in the side for laughing at him. “I was uh…I was a bit afraid you were dead. You didn’t rouse when we were thrown into the cell by the naval officer, and it made a bit of a ruckus.”

“Not dead yet, unfortunately,” the man says, charmed, a roguish grin spreading onto his face. “Though thank you for checking. I’m Chema Grantaire. Spanish mother, French father, in case you were wondering about the name. And you?”

“Benoit Lesgle,” Lesgle says, gesturing to himself. “And this is my friend, Elliot Joly.”

“French then, the both of you?” he asks, sitting up straighter and shaking the sleep from his eyes.

“Paris,” Joly says. “Lesgle’s parents were from Meaux, but they were swept into the Caribbean like so many of us.”

At this Grantaire bursts out laughing, holding his sides in mirth, and Joly and Lesgle look at each other in utter bewilderment.

“Uh,” Lesgle says, drawing out the word. “Would you care to share with us what’s so amusing?”

“Well,” Grantaire says, wiping his eyes, still holding onto a few shreds of laughter. “There was this French bishop you see, he died a few years ago in 1704, I think. Anyhow, his real name was Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, but people called him L’Aigle de Meaux on account of his oration skills. And L’Aigle sounds like…”

“Lesgle,” Lesgle says, grinning. “Clever. The Eagle of Meaux. Though color me surprised that you know that particular piece of history.”

“That’s just the beginning of the things I know, I’m afraid. Perhaps I just call you Bossuet from now on,” Grantaire says. “Or the Eagle.”

“I like the sound of both of those,” Joly says. “Though what sort of man was this bishop?”

“Not our sort, I’d wager,” Grantaire says. “Bit of a divine right monarchist, and us, well. We’re in jail for less than upstanding reasons. Or so I assume.”

 “What are you in here for?” Joly asks.

“Technically loitering,” Grantaire answers. “Though I suppose I mouthed off to the officer who arrested me a bit more than I should have.”

“Too much wine?” Lesgle asks.

“Certainly,” Grantaire says. “Though it had nothing to do with the mouthing off, I’ve a much better tolerance than that. And you two?”

“Accidental tavern fight,” Joly replies, sheepish.

“Accidental?”

"Someone pushed me," Lesgle explains. "So I fell into someone else and..."

"They thought you were starting something," Grantaire finishes. "Been there."

"Have you?" Joly asks, curious. 

"Several times," Grantaire says. "Though I did win a few, I'm fairly adept at hand to hand combat."

"Perhaps we should keep you with us then," Lesgle says with a smirk. "We could use you."

"So do you live in Kingston?" Grantaire asks. 

"No," Joly responds, lowering his voice. "Actually we were headed to Nassau."

"The pirate stronghold," Grantaire says, whispering as well. "Interesting. You're pirates yourselves then?"

"Not exactly," Lesgle says. "We were living on Saint-Lucia- I worked in a tavern and I helped Joly…escape from the French Navy, shall we say. He was a doctor mostly deprived of treating his patients unless the captain saw fit, you see. We sailed on a pirate ship out of there a few weeks ago, then landed here. But we kept hearing stories about Nassau."

"It is a place unto itself," Grantaire says, and Lesgle finds himself charmed by this man, feeling as if the three of them share a sense of oddness that mashes together well. 

"You've been there?" Joly asks, eyes widening. "Are the stories true?"

"Depends on the stories," Grantaire says, a genuine smile lighting up his face, and Lesgle suspects those might be rare and handed out with caution. "And yes, I've been there. My father was a wealthy privateer who ran into some legal trouble and found himself drawn to piracy. Though for less noble reasons than some of the pirates who inhabit Nassau. I went with him, but he got killed in a storm a few years ago, so I've been traveling on my own since."

"So you are a pirate?" Joly says, intrigued, and his voice goes up in his excitement. 

"Not as far as these walls are concerned, I'm not," Grantaire says, an mischevous gleam in his eyes. 

"What would your mother say?" Lesgle teases, and Grantaire laughs, giving Lesgle the impression that should they get their hands on a bottle of wine there might be no end to the merriment. 

"Oh my mother knows," Grantaire says, surprising them. "She was wealthy daughter of Spanish aristocrats who married my father on a whim and years later found she didn't like him very much. She couldn't get a divorce, so she moved back to Spain. I write her, when I can, she sends me money. She leaves the door open for me to join her in Spain, but doesn’t pressure me to do so. She says I have too much of my father in me."

"Given the piracy," Lesgle says. "It seems she's right.”

 “So wait,” Grantaire replies. “The two of you met how?”

“One of my fellow officers shot Lesgle accidentally,” Joly says.

“Lots of accidents with the two of you.”

Joly’s about to respond when the three of them hear the door open again, the sound of two voices coming down toward them. 

"This isn't the first time I've had a breach on my ship," a man says, irritation in his tone. "I might have to consider releasing Rollins from his service. It's been fairly harmless stowaways for the most part but..."

"It could end up being spies or pirates," the second man finishes. "Well, you have to do what you must, Michel."

"Remind me why I let the navy snap you up?" the first man says, fondness in his voice, though Lesgle suspects the pair will be less than friendly toward them. 

The second man doesn't answer, laughing instead, though to Lesgle's ears it sounds more like a hoarse, barking dog. The two men appear in their view and the easy dialogue vanishes, morphing into business. 

"You," the man whose laugh sounded like a dog says, gesturing at Grantaire, his long black hair lending a severe frame to his face. "Stand up and come here."

"And who might you be?" Grantaire asks, doing so, but not without injecting a good amount of snark into his voice. 

"Commander Javert of His Majesty's Royal Navy," he answers. "And you will not treat me with such disrespect." 

"Simply asking a question," Grantaire says, raising his hands, though Lesgle sees some sweat beading at his hairline. 

"We've found out that your deceased father was charged with piracy," the commander responds. "And surmised that maybe that was your purview when we arrested you for stowing away on Commodore Enjolras' ship," Javert says, moving closer to the door. "Would you like to tell me whether or not you're spy for a particular pirate? For one of those fiends on Nassau, perhaps?"

"I would make a frightful spy," Grantaire says. "So decidedly not. And before you ask, I'm not a foreign spy, either."

"Pirates of all stripes have been mounting attacks on East India and Naval ships," Javert continues. "The pirate Fauchelevent has set his sights on Commander Enjolras' ships in the past. If you work for him and give us information we might be persuaded to release you."

"I'm not a spy," Grantaire protests, truly looking nervous now, his eyes flitting back and forth. “And I’ve never met Fauchelevent, only heard of him like everybody else, pirate or no. Which certainly doesn’t give me insight into his plans.”

"Then what were you doing aboard my ship?" the man who Lesgle assumes is Commodore Enjolras asks, his gaze piercing and his posture utterly straight. 

"Exactly what it looked like," Grantaire answers. "Stowing away in order to get passage somewhere. You have no proof of anything else, and I don't think stowing away on a ship amounts to a piracy charge."

"That," Javert says, and Lesgle feels shivers go down his spine at the cold look in the man's eyes, an expression devoid of mercy, or rather, Lesgle senses, mercy he keeps pent up at all costs for fear of what granting it might mean. "Is for the court to decide."

"You're sending me to trial for piracy for stowing away?" Grantaire asks, the earlier grin chased entirely away from his face now. 

"I gave you your choice," Javert says. "You chose not to take it."

"I told the _truth_ ," Grantaire insists. 

"No one stowing away on an East India ship is up to something trustworthy," Commodore Enjolras says. "Perhaps you should have considered the consequences before you chose to do so."

"How is any man meant to defend himself if you don't believe what he says?" Joly asks, and Lesgle jumps at the unexpected sound of his voice, though he supposes he shouldn't be surprised; Joly can't stay quiet when he senses an injustice he might prevent. “Or at least take it into account?”

"By being an upstanding man in the first place," Javert answers. 

“And what’s your definition of _that_ , commander?” Lesgle asks, not without a significant amount of disdain in his voice.

“I don’t have the time in my day to dictate morality to scoundrels,” Javert says. “You’ll have to figure that out for yourselves.”

With that, he turns on his heel and goes toward the door as if they are nothing more than specks on the bottom of his boots. Commander Enjolras eyes them for a moment longer, then turns away, pulling out his pocket-watch as he does so, a folded, creased piece of paper falling out of his pocket unnoticed. It lands next to the cell, and though it's wrinkled almost beyond recognition, Lesgle makes out the word "Missing" at the top, and a sketch of a young boy's face below, and three names resting at the bottom. He can’t make the names out, but although it’s only a sketch, the features on the boy’s face strike a resemblance to Commodore Enjolras that Lesgle cannot miss.

“Sir,” Grantaire says, sarcasm lacing his words. “You dropped something. Another person you’re looking to overcharge, perhaps? By the look of that poster they’ve been missing for a while.”

Commodore Enjolras spins around with an odd grace, retrieving the piece of paper from the floor, eyes flashing with fury, yet mired down with grief.

“Watch your mouth, pirate,” he says, more ire in his tone than Lesgle expected. “Or there will be more charges added to the list.”

He turns away again and Lesgle sees Commander Javert stalled at the foot of the stairs, a flash of human vulnerability in his face as he ushers Commodore Enjolras out in front of him.

“It’s all right sir,” he whispers, so soft Lesgle barely hears it, the tone gentle yet still maintaining a hardened edge. “Don’t let the likes of them bother you.”

“ _That_ was exceedingly odd,” Joly says, once they hear the door slam closed. “What do you suppose it was about?”

“I think the person on the poster was his son,” Lesgle says, feeling an odd sense of providence, as if he knows the face on that poster even though he’s never seen the person before in his life.

“How do you guess that?” Grantaire asks, and Lesgle watches him go over to the hinges of the door, fingers grazing over the edges.

“Looked like him,” Lesgle says.

“Good eyes,” Joly says, turning to Grantaire with a grave but confused expression. “What are you doing?” he asks, following Lesgle’s eyes to Grantaire and the door hinges.

“Testing the door hinges,” Grantaire says without explanation.

“These doors are tight,” Joly says, worry edging into his voice. “I…if there’s any way we can help you escape, I know that charge of piracy…”

“Might send me to the noose?” Grantaire says, though he seems less concerned than he did during the interrogation, victory sliding onto his face as sees that some of the hinges are, in fact, far looser than they should be, though Lesgle isn’t sure how that helps. “I know. But I think I can get out. All of us.”

“How?” Lesgle asks, resting a hand on his hip, skeptical.

Grantaire grins, his eyes falling to the bench and then back again to the cell doors. “Leverage, my new friend. Leverage. Wasn’t worth the risk before, they’d just add more time to my sentence for trying to escape. But now, well. Tide’s coming up fast. We’ll have to wait until dark. You two in?”

 Lesgle meets Joly’s eyes, seeing that same gleam of apprehension and adventure shining in his eyes he’d seen on the night they’d whisked away from the French Navy ship a year ago. As with then, the adventure wins out.

“We’re in,” Lesgle says. “But what about the guard?”

“There’s just one, at night,” Grantaire says. “And there’s three of us.”

“It will make a noise,” Joly replies. “We’ll have to get out fast. And then what?”

“We’ll find a ship. Privateer, pirate, doesn’t matter,” Grantaire answers. “Kingston may be East India and English Navy territory, but I know for a fact that, what was it Commander Javert called us? Ah yes. Scoundrels. Some of those always manage to slip through the cracks under the guise of respectability.”

“Or perhaps they’re the ones with more respectability than the people who claim such,” Joly adds.

“Inevitably my friend,” Grantaire says, and Joly smiles wide at the term. “Inevitably.”

“You know,” Lesgle says, realizing something. “You said you were jailed for loitering.”

“Well it wasn’t a lie,” Grantaire insists. “I was just loitering on a _ship_ instead of on land.”

At this the three of them burst out laughing, and despite their less than ideal circumstances, Lesgle, or as Grantaire might call him, Bossuet, feels joy spread through him, his feeling matched in the expression on Joly’s face.

When night falls and the bustle of the town outside goes quiet, Grantaire gestures at them.

“Help me lift the bench,” he whispers. “We’re going to push the edge of it up against the bars.”

Bossuet and Joly do as asked, picking up the back edge of the bench while Grantaire manages the front, pushing it up against the bars. It takes a few moments, but Grantaire was right about the hinges. They come loose the harder they push up, and eventually the door comes off, crashing with a loud clang against the wall.

“See?” Grantaire says. “Leverage.”

“As someone trained as a blacksmith,” Bossuet says. “I’m offended that you figured that out and not me.”

“Spend much time crafting jail cell bars?” Grantaire asks.

“Not really,” says Bossuet with a laugh. “But still.”

They step out of the cell just as the door opens at the top of the stairs. The guard, however, doesn’t stand a chance. Bossuet puts his foot out and the guard goes crashing to the floor. He swings for Grantaire but Grantaire swings back, landing a swift punch as Joly seizes his sword and his gun. They dash outside into the night, running toward the docks and away from the jail as fast as possible, darting behind a few trees to catch their breath.

“A blacksmith, a doctor, and a privateer’s son turned pirate,” Grantaire says, admiration in his voice. “My what a team we make. That was fairly impressive if I do say so myself.”

Grantaire’s eyes scan the docks from where they stand, no doubt searching for a ship that will grant them passage out.

“There,” he says after a moment, gaze landing on a ship near the edge. “We’ll sneak onto that ship and sail away when it leaves in the morning.”

“We’re going to stowaway?” Bossuet asks, flabbergasted. “We’re going to do the very thing you were _jailed_ for?”

“It’s just a privateer ship,” Grantaire says. “We’ll integrate much more easily than I did trying to hide away on an East India ship. Less uniforms. Besides if we’re caught they’ll just dump us at the next island, and we’d want to get off anyhow, to find passage to Nassau.”

“Nassau?” Joly asks, a half-smile on his face. “You want to come with us?”

“Friends who escape jail together stay together, I say,” Grantaire replies, flicking Joly good-naturedly in the arm. “And besides, I just gave Bossuet his nickname. Can’t pass up the opportunity to use it. I speak three languages, so I can get us passage. Guaranteed.”

“Nassau,” Bossuet says.

“Nassau,” Grantaire repeats, winking in a way that makes Bossuet laugh once again. “Let’s go.”

With that, they run off once more into the night, and all things considered, Bossuet thinks, he’s never felt so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why are Michel and Javert in Kingston? How did Javert end up in the English Navy? All things that there will be answers for at the start of Book II! But up next, and the last chapter of Book I, will be Prouvaire and Bahorel's introductions! Also I hope someone caught the Pirates of the Caribbean reference!


	9. Book I (Beginnings): Section 4, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting into an argument with the captain of the merchant ship he sails on, Bahorel runs into Jean Prouvaire, a young man who is more than he seems at first glance, and they find themselves sharing a common spirit, no matter how different their backgrounds. Four months later, Prouvaire shows up at Bahorel's doorstep, and the two journey off to Nassau, wanting to see just what this pirate republic is all about. Also including bonus Gavroche!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the last section of Book I! Just as a note, there is a Jewish character in this chapter. I am not Jewish, so if I have done this badly please do kindly let me know. Also as a note, as far as my research indicates, the word "Jew" as a noun is not deragatory, but if used as an adjective it is, so again, if this needs correcting, do let me know. I checked it against a couple of websites, but you know. The internet. It is wrong sometimes. Warning for mentions of anti-semitism. In any case, I do hope you enjoy the chapter!

**Book I (Beginnings): Section 4, Part 1**

**Guadeloupe, Leeward Islands. March, 1710.**

“Bahorel you are testing my patience,” Captain Royer says, gritting his teeth in irritation. “I’ve told you before, if you don’t like it then you may resign your service to this ship when you see fit. There’s plenty of men out there desperate for work, there will be a line of them ready to take your place.”

“Sir,” Bahorel says, trying mightily to keep his anger in check. “When I first joined this crew we did not do business with slavers. You said you found it immoral.”

“Well,” the captain says, averting his eyes. “One must make a living. The sugar trade is becoming increasingly lucrative. Besides that it is nearly impossible to do business in this region without carrying items from plantations. The East India Trading Company is charging for all sorts of things, including rising berthing fees I can barely afford and I have to make my living somehow or go work for them myself, which is an option I detest.”

“All I hear are excuses and you bowing to East India’s power,” Bahorel questions, knowing the trouble he’s getting himself into. “And how soon will the day come when you start transporting the slaves themselves?”

“I would not do that,” Captain Royer insists, expression souring further.

“So you said about the doing business with the slavers before,” Bahorel snaps.

“Let me be clear,” Captain Royer responds. “It is only due to the loyalty you’ve shown me for years and my own weak affections for you and your father before you that I haven’t let you go already for all your insubordination. As I said, if you’ve a moral disagreement, than you can go. Do not test me. You are eight and twenty years old, and if you want to give up a valid source of employment for the sake of some ideals you think you have, that’s not my business.”

“This shouldn’t be considered so high minded as ideals,” Bahorel responds. “It should be common human decency.”

“So should a lot of things, lad,” Captain Royer says, softening a bit but not budging from his choice. “Now go. Those sugar crates won’t load themselves.”

Bahorel turns, pushing his hat down on his head and stalking off, his boots stomping on the wood as he goes. In his several years on this ship they’ve never dealt in items from slave plantations, and the surprise of this sudden change makes his stomach churn. He wants to leave right now and find his own passage back rather than be complicit in something he finds reprehensible, but the truth is he can’t afford passage back to Martinique on his own. He’d left the extra money he had with mother and two sisters, the younger of which needed medicine for a cough, and that didn’t come cheap. His mother did well for herself running a tailoring and sewing business, but things are tight when unexpected expenses arise. He follows the other men down the gangplank and the dock where the sugar crates are stacked, eyes catching on a poster pinned to one of the nearby poles.

 _Wanted Alive_ , it reads. _The Pirate Fauchelvent_.

 _Fauchelevent_ , Bahorel thinks. _That pirate who makes berth at Nassau._

“Man’s elusive,” Bahorel says to Segal, who stands beside him, hoisting a box of sugar onto his shoulders. “Seems like I see more and more posters with his face on them as the years pass.”

“He’s interrupting trade routes everywhere. Apparently stealing from the wealthy merchants and East India and giving it to the poor,” Segal answers, eyes flitting over to the poster as he adjusts the sugar box. “Seems to think of himself as some kind of…oh, what’s that old English folklore legend?”

“Robin Hood?” Bahorel asks, arching one eyebrow.

“That’s the one,” Segal answers. He leans in closer to Bahorel, dropping his voice. “Though between you and me, some of those privateers or pirates or whatever they’re calling themselves on Nassau seem to have it right. From what I’ve heard they get a much more equal share than we do, when the money comes in. A friend on the last merchant ship I sailed on, he went pirate.”

“Bit of a lawless bunch aren’t they?” Bahorel asks, a grin slipping onto his face.

“Aye,” Segal says, clapping Bahorel on the back with his free hand, smirking. “Sounds like it’s right up your alley.”

“Fair enough Segal,” Bahorel says, feeling a laugh bubble up within him and releasing it despite his foul mood. “Fair enough.”

They aren’t setting sail until morning, so as soon as the ship is loaded Bahorel sets out in search of a tavern. Liquor might dull the thoughts of most men, but he finds his does his best thinking with a drink in hand and raucous noise in the background. Something about it shuts the spinning of his own mind down. He likes nights on the sea when the waves slap against the side of the ship like an unruly lullaby from the water; the darkest, quietest nights set him ill at ease, and though he’s grown used to it over time, he usually doesn’t sleep well. Unlike most sailors he welcomes a small storm then and now, those devoid of the dangerous lightning and winds, but with rain coming down steadily and the thunder booming off in the distance. They usually come in late summer when the heat is at its most intense and unbearable, the moisture thick, rain coming down to cool things off for just a moment. He knows that when he reaches home and tells his mother he cannot sail with Captain Royers any longer she will pat his cheek and smile, telling him it’s all right, that he’ll find another source of employment with his skills. He knows she’ll understand, and he’s grateful. But somehow it makes this harder, too. Her stubbornness and strength is too much to let him sacrifice his morals, _their_ morals, really. But he also tries hard to fill his father’s boots and never let his mother and sisters go without. It’s difficult, he muses, trying to stand in his father’s place and still be a son and a brother. He cannot tread on the mightiness of a mother who survived better than anyone he knew.

He sees the lights of a tavern a few hundred yards away, but turns when he hears a shout nearby.

“Dammit!” says a young man who can’t be more than twenty, scrambling for papers that the water quickly rushes for.

“Here,” Bahorel says, dashing over. “Looks like you could use some help.”

He seizes a small sheaf of papers just before the tide pulls them away, the other man picking up a small book with a cracked leather spine.

“Thank you,” the man says, a smile in his hazel eyes as he looks up, the breeze blowing several strands of his reddish blonde hair out of its tie. “I’m a bit clumsy, I’m afraid. I was walking along the shore looking for a drier spot and dropped everything.”

“They’re a bit damp but none the worse for the wear,” Bahorel says, eyes scanning over the titles out of curiosity.

“Wait,” the man says. “Those are…”

“Abolitionist pamphlets,” Bahorel says softly, raising his eyes and meeting the stranger’s. “Don’t see many of those around these parts.”

“Going to turn me in?” the other man asks, though he doesn’t look afraid, Bahorel notices, meeting his gaze with a quiet intensity he doesn’t expect.

“No,” Bahorel says, handing them back over. “I’m not in the habit of turning people in, and besides, I agree with you.”

“Well,” the man says, the smile in his eyes spreading to his lips. “That’s certainly pleasant to hear. I’m Jean Prouvaire.”

“Eli Bahorel,” Bahorel responds, putting out a hand. Prouvaire shakes it, adjusting the other two items under his arm, one a book and the other some kind of leather bound journal.

“The Seafarer?” Bahorel asks, eyes reading over the cover of the book.

“An Old English poem,” Prouvaire informs him. “Trying to sort out the themes and make sense of the language. Sitting by the sea seemed a good place to do so.”

“Interesting combination of subjects,” Bahorel answers, curiosity peaked.

“Well there’s all sorts of things to read, aren’t there?” Prouvaire says looking off into the distance, voice dreamy as his eyes trace the edges of the waves. “So much to learn about the world.”

“That’s true,” Bahorel says, intrigued by his sudden new acquaintance. “Fascinated by the sea, are you?”

“There’s such fascinating lore about the sea,” Prouvaire says, enthusiasm in his voice as he looks back over at Bahorel. “Truth bleeds into legend and myth into reality. This journal,” he says, holding it up. “Is full of sea stories I hear from the sailors who come through here that I write down. Old legends, and such. Who knows the truth, really? Seems like a lot of things are possible, all sorts of creatures of legend living beneath the sea. Spirits all around us that we don’t even notice, perhaps.”

“Maybe so. Some men almost consider the sea a sort of religion,” Bahorel says, a smile spreading on his face. “I’d be interested to hear the stories you’ve heard. Though maybe hold off on the Davy Jones stories.”

“Scared? Prouvaire asks, amused.

“Never,” Bahorel says, clearing his throat. “Only, I like to avoid the bottom of the sea. Usually leads to death.”

“True,” Prouvaire answers. “Though for all the time we spend avoiding the ocean’s floor we don’t really have any idea what lives there, do we? Might be something interesting. We assume evil, though some might be benevolent.”

“An interesting thought,” Bahorel says, contemplating the younger man before making a decision. “Say, I was headed to the tavern just across the way, would you like to join me?”

“My father’s expecting me back in a couple of hours,” Prouvaire replies, and Bahorel notices something he can’t name flash through Prouvaire’s eyes. “But that’s plenty of time, so certainly. Thank you.”

“I’m glad for some new company,” Bahorel says. “The other lads on the ship are good men, but I got into a bit of a…visible tiff with the captain earlier, so they might steer clear of me for a little while. Just to avoid getting on his bad side.”

“A tiff?” Prouvaire asks.

“Well he’s started doing business with slavers,” Bahorel explains. “And he never has before and I uh. Well I let him know how I feel about it.”

“As well you should have,” Prouvaire answers, though he casts his eyes downward. “You’re a merchant sailor then? East India?”

“No,” Bahorel answers, chuckling. “Just an individual merchant ship. Been sailing on it for several years now, though my mother and sisters are back on Martinique. I’d rather stab myself in the eye than sail for the East India Trading Company.”

Jean Prouvaire laughs at this and it chases away the melancholy expression in his eyes of a moment previous.

“Noted,” he says. “Interesting waistcoat, by the way.”

“Ah,” Bahorel says, looking down at his prize piece of clothing, a bright red waistcoat with tiny gold stripes. “This was a gift from my father before he died a couple of years ago. He shared my tastes, much to my mother’s chagrin. Your shirt is interesting,” he says, gesturing at the billowy sleeved, deep purple tunic.

“Thank you!” Prouvaire exclaims as they enter the tavern. “Very few people think so, I’m afraid. My father decidedly does _not_ share my tastes.”

They order their drinks-mead for Bahorel, red wine for Prouvaire- and sit down, taking their first sips and settling into a momentary silence, the roar of the tavern ironically making it easy for a private conversation.

“So who is your father?” Bahorel asks. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

Prouvaire hesitates a moment, something like trust flickering in his eyes before he ploughs forward, his voice soft but tinged with a bitterness Bahorel suspects isn’t a natural part of his character.

“My father is the master of one of the largest sugar plantations on the island,” he says, meeting Bahorel’s eyes with something he first thinks is a challenge, but then realizes is undoubtedly shame. “Most likely where your captain got the sugar you’re transporting from.”

“And yet I found his son with abolitionist pamphlets in his hands,” Bahorel says, sensing a kindred spirit. “Bit of a rebel are we, Prouvaire?”

“I’m not sure if I am or not,” Prouvaire answers, looking back down at this drink, running his thumb up and down the stem of the glass. “I haven’t gotten to act much on it, yet.”

“And what brought this abolitionist literature to you, if I might ask?”

“I’d heard word of groups that met in taverns like these,” Prouvaire says, lowering his voice.

“Easy to hide,” Bahorel interjects.

“Yes,” Prouvaire says, nodding. “I…well the whole thing never sat right with me. Slavery, that is. It was so ingrained into the everyday fabric of my life that I couldn’t see how to undo it, and my father certainly wouldn’t encourage it. Anyway, I saw my father’s overseer punishing an older slave one day, a man far past the age of anyone who should be doing any kind of physical labor. And the man, he…he died, later.”

Prouvaire doesn’t continue, angry tears swimming in his eyes, lit by the dim candlelight and lending an ethereal glow.

“It urged you into action,” Bahorel says, voice far graver than normal. “I understand.”

“The groups here have to work in near utter secrecy,” Prouvaire continues. “Since the island is one of the largest sugar suppliers in the region. I’d like to leave this place, when I can, and see what’s going outside its confines. What about you?” he asks, taking a sip of his wine.

“Ah well,” Bahorel says. “My family are Sephardi Jews. Kicked out of Spain and Portugal a couple of hundred years ago on penalty of death or conversion and dispersed from then on. My family ended up in Algeria, which is where I was born. Then we moved to France for a bit, some of my father’s family lived there, then to the Caribbean a decade or so ago. My mother’s family lived in Spain for generations, but she’s never been there and so we’ve lived all over. We’ve had people paint slurs on our doors in the middle of the night. So let’s just say that the idea of people going to a country and stealing other people they deem less valuable to put them through unpaid labor isn’t something I’d ever be able to agree with.”

Prouvaire raises his glass to that, and Bahorel raises his as well, clinking them together. They talk for a few more minutes until Bahorel sees a man come up behind Jean Prouvaire, a smirk that spells trouble curving his lips. Before Prouvaire even notices him the unknown man snatches the face down abolitionist pamphlet from the table.

“My my,” he says, examining it. “What do we have here?”

“It’s nothing to you, Gerard,” Prouvaire says, calm, but there’s an edge to his voice Bahorel didn’t expect. “Give them back.”

“An abolitionist pamphlet,” the man continues, insincere enthusiasm in his voice. “What would your father say, Prouvaire?”

“Nothing, I imagine, since he doesn’t know,” Prouvaire says, eyes glinting with annoyance. “But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

“I could tell him for you, if you like,” Gerard says, pulling the pamphlet away as Prouvaire reaches for it. “Wouldn’t that be something he’d like to learn on his deathbed?”

Bahorel processes this new information, then speaks up.

“No one invited you here,” he says. “And unless you’d like a bruised face I suggest you give this man back his papers and leave.”

“I’m afraid I don’t take orders from strange merchant sailors just passing through,” Gerard says. “And this is our business, not yours.”

The tone in his voice implies that to this man Bahorel is nothing more than the dirt under his boot, but before he can speak again Prouvaire cuts in, voice tangled with a kind of gentle rage Bahorel doesn’t think he’s heard before.

“Gerard,” he says, meeting the other man’s eyes. “Return my papers.”

“But it would be such news,” Gerard says, pulling them back again. “Undermining your father’s work this way. It would perhaps help my father gain some of the merchants away from yours.” He chuckles, but it’s an unpleasant sound. “You might even be disowned. What a terrible way to go for your father, with only a few months left to live, or so I’ve heard.”

Before Bahorel even realizes what’s happening Jean Prouvaire kicks Gerard directly in the knee with the sole of his foot, and from the sound of it, as hard as he can manage. Gerard doesn’t fall but reaches to clasp his knee, dropping the papers, which Prouvaire picks up immediately.

“You bastard!” Gerard exclaims, obviously surprised at the power of Prouvaire’s kick. No one, Bahorel notices, comes to his aid. “I’ll tell…”

“My father,” Prouvaire says, standing up from his chair and draining the last of his wine. “So you said. Somehow I think your threats are a bit empty.” He turns, looking at Bahorel. “I’d like to leave, if you don’t mind?”

“Certainly not,” Bahorel says, finishing his mead. “Especially not as my respect for you just rose monumentally, that was a solid kick.”

Prouvaire grins, stepping around a dumbfounded Gerard as he goes, Bahorel following out behind him.

“Where did you learn to kick like that?” Bahorel asks, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrows. “As a connoisseur of brawls, having won and lost my own share over the years, inquiring minds want to know.”

“My mother taught me, actually,” Prouvaire says. “She was attacked once walking home when she was pregnant with me and she wanted to learn to protect herself after that. She liked to go out on her own, you see.”

“A woman who can fight,” Bahorel says. “Now that is something I can get behind.”

“She died a few years ago,” Prouvaire says. “But she taught me how to defend myself, if I needed it. My father thought I was too fragile and sickly.”

“Or in this case to take the offensive,” Bahorel says, grinning. “Want to walk by the shore for a bit? You can tell me one of your sea legends, if you like.”

Prouvaire’s smile reaches his eyes at this, and he nods in agreement.  They walk outside just as the sun starts setting, the clear water at shore’s edge lit a burning orange-red, like flames gliding along on the surface. They walk in silence for a few moments, Prouvaire’s eyes tracing the faint constellations that are not fully visible yet in the still darkening sky. Bahorel can just make out Orion, though only bits and pieces.

“My father has consumption,” Prouvaire says. “It’s a slow death. But he’s getting worse.”

“I didn’t want to pry into your business,” Bahorel says, gentler than normal. “But I am sorry.”

“My father and I get along,” Prouvaire continues, and Bahorel senses the melancholy and the loneliness in his voice. He doesn’t have many people to talk to, it seems, and sometimes talking to a stranger is easier than talking to someone you know, partly because you never know if you’ll see them again. “Though I fear that’s mostly because he knows so little of my true person. He allows me my books and my long stretches away from home during the day, and he doesn’t worry for my future because he assumes I will simply take his place. Find a wife, have children, take over the plantation.”

“But you don’t want that?”

“No,” Prouvaire says, looking out toward the ocean again as if his heart rests somewhere in the waves. “I’d thought to argue with him about slavery, to tell him of my interest in abolition and manumission, but he’s not long for the world and if I told him, well. I’m afraid he wouldn’t leave me the plantation.”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows, interested. “And what are your plans?”

“I want to free the slaves my father owns,” Prouvaire says, determination in his voice. “I had thought, initially, to free them and then pay them wages to work, but then I realized, well…I don’t want to stay here. And they might not want to either. But it’s not simple. I want to get them passage where’d they’d like to go, give them money for the journey. I don’t want to just release them without a care for what comes after.”

“I’m certain you can figure it out,” Bahorel says. “Though I suspect it will cause quite an uproar.”

“People should learn not to build economies on the back of cruelty, then,” Prouvaire says, that same gentle rage Bahorel heard in his voice before reverberating throughout. “Some people might call my ideas _heroics,_ but it’s nothing so grand. It’s common human decency.”

“Hear hear,” Bahorel says, clapping him on the back, smiling as he hears his own earlier words to Captain Royer repeated back to him.

Silence falls between them again and they let it lay for a few minutes as the full moon rises and the countless stars light their path. Prouvaire removes his shoes and Bahorel follows suit, the water rushing up around their feet and pulling back again, leaving sand glistening on their skin in the moonlight.

“So,” Bahorel says after a bit. “You were going to tell me some of those sea legends?”

“Yes!” Prouvaire exclaims, clapping his hands together in glee. “These stars and this full moon make me think of selkies.”

“The people who are part human part seal?” Bahorel asks. “I’ve heard the stories about female selkies supposedly marrying human men but always longing for the sea. Sounds…tragic. Though perhaps like it would make a good play.”

“It _is_ ,” Prouvaire says, his tone an odd combination of sad and animated. “The legends say there are male selkies as well, though most legends speak of the women.”

“Likely because the people telling the legends are men,” Bahorel points out.

“True,” Prouvaire answers. “Though they do say that male selkies have great seductive powers. Or so I’ve read.”

“Like sirens?”

“Not quite like that,” Prouvaire says. “No wrecked boats, or anything of that sort. There’s a legend from the Faroe Islands in Norway, of a young man who hid a selkie’s skin and forced her to marry him…”

“Brute,” Bahorel interjects.

“Quite,” Prouvaire answers. “That one’s a bit tragic. She escapes and he goes after her selkie husband and sons and kills them, and she understandably swears revenge, saying that men on the farmer’s island will die by falling from cliffs and drowning and other such things. So now when men die in that way, they say it’s the selkie’s revenge.”

“Charming,” Bahorel says. “Rather…bloody.”

“Yes,” Prouvaire says, though he doesn’t seem bothered. “But some of the stories are sweet. Selkie women falling in love with human men and having children yet still longing for the sea. Torn between two different loves.”

“The stars and the full moon cause you to think of these legends in particular?” Bahorel asks.

“They say selkies come out and dance on the shore at night,” Prouvaire explains. “Shedding their skin and taking their human form.” He pauses, looking at Bahorel and then back out at the sea. “I suppose I like learning about these legends, thinking of the things beyond the everyday. Beyond what we see.”

“Makes sense,” Bahorel says. “I think we’re all searching for something, aren’t we? Just manifests differently for each of us.”

“How does it manifest for you?” Prouvaire asks.

“I’m not sure it’s so concrete as yours,” Bahorel says. “But I feel almost…restless on land. I stay for stretches because of my mother and sisters, and I do miss their company when I’m away, but there’s a reason I chose a source of employment that involved sailing. It’s like wandering the world, even if I only sail around this region. It never seems the same. It’s always different.”

There’s a mystery in Prouvaire’s smile, pronounced by the pinprick lights of the stars.

“I’m afraid I have to go,” Prouvaire says, looking at his pocket watch. “But it was a genuine pleasure to meet you. Even if I got into a bit of a tiff with Gerard, as you might say.”

“Made the evening more exciting!” Bahorel exclaims. “And the same to you, certainly.” He hesitates a moment, then gestures at Prouvaire’s journal. “Here, let me write where to find me in Martinique. For when you get off this island.”

Prouvaire hands over his journal and his quill eagerly, and Bahorel writes the information down.

“We used to live in Fort-Royal,” Bahorel says. “But we moved to Saint-Pierre a few years later. They call it the Paris of the Caribbean.”

“Fascinating!” Prouvaire says, marking the spot where Bahorel’s written the address. “Thank you. Good luck, with your employer.”

“And you with your father and setting those slaves free,” Bahorel replies.

With that Prouvaire tucks his book, papers, and journal under his arm, waving at Bahorel one last time before turning and walking away, disappearing into the darkness toward town as abruptly as he’d appeared on the shore that afternoon. Bahorel watches him go, then turns back toward the direction of the docks and his ship, a decision cementing in his mind. Once they reach Martinique, he decides, he’ll be terminating his time in Captain Royer’s service.

* * *

**Saint-Pierre, Martinique. 4 months later.**

_What am I doing?_ Jean Prouvaire thinks to himself as he steps off the ship and onto the dock, one bag slung over his shoulder and a case in his hand. The city of Saint-Pierre sits before him, as bustling as he’d heard. His memories of a trip to Paris as a young boy were long faded, but the comparison, from what he could recall, made sense. He hears the dinging of the buoys on the shoreline, the shouts of the dock workers, the creaking of the gangplanks as sailors emerge from their ships with items for the markets beyond. _I’ve met this man exactly once._

Bahorel’s note indicates that his mother’s shop with lodgings above are about two miles from the docks, and though Prouvaire sees fiacres rattling by he chooses walking instead, hoping it will clear his head. He left Guadeloupe a week and a half ago, once the work of selling off the plantation was done and his father’s affairs settled. He’s certain his father already rolls in his grave, but Prouvaire cannot regret. Already in these past few days he’s felt the pervasive sense of loneliness he’d felt since his mother died dissipate, finally allowed to be himself. His mother loved him close up, his father from afar, absent, even if they lived in the same house. The further Prouvaire drifted from his father’s beliefs, the more his isolation grew. Although he was leaving everything he’d known, he held no fear. His life, he muses, was not what one would call hard, exactly; it was full of privileges he certainly wouldn’t deny. But it had been empty and lonely, and he was determined to change that. He walks slowly through Saint-Pierre, eyes roving over the buildings and catching the details. There’s poetry in the way the sun sparkles across the water, and he finds himself wondering what the island was like before colonization took root, before Columbus, when the Arawaks called it home. Several different languages reach his ears as he walks; French and English, both of which he knows, he catches a few words of Spanish, and a language he thinks is a type of Creole, though the dialects vary from island to island. After three quarters of an hour or so he reaches the shop in question, a small bell tinkling as he opens the door, met with a rather unexpected sight.

“Gavroche,” Bahorel says to a boy that looks around eleven and with a grumpy expression. “Stop moving about, I have to get this right.”

“My clothes are fine,” the boy protests, though he does cease his movement, a spark of admiration in his eyes.

“Your clothes are have holes in them because your parents are neglectful bastards,” Bahorel argues, muttering, though his hands are more nimble with taking the measurements than Prouvaire expects.

“That _is_ true,” Gavroche says.

“Your sisters didn’t wriggle nearly so much,” Bahorel says.

“Cursing in front of children?” Prouvaire asks, and Bahorel jumps, dropping his measuring supplies and Gavroche laughs uproariously.

“Jean Prouvaire,” he says, sounding surprised but pleased. “You’ve left Guadeloupe.”

“Indeed I have,” Prouvaire answers. “Who’s your friend?”

“Gavroche Thenardier,” Bahorel says. “And don’t worry about the cursing, he’s used to it.”

“And who are _you_?” Gavroche asks, curious at this unexpected development.

“I’m Bahorel’s friend Jean Prouvaire,” Prouvaire replies, putting out his hand, which Gavroche shakes firmly for a skinny young boy, and he finds himself instantly charmed.

“Well I’ve got your measurements,” Bahorel tells Gavroche, trying to sound stern but unable to hide a grin. “Though with very little cooperation from you. I need to speak with Prouvaire, but remember, if you need a place tonight…”

“I know, I know,” Gavroche says, waving a hand and not letting Bahorel complete the sentence, but he does flick Bahorel on the arm in what Prouvaire assumes is affection before smirking at them and dashing out the door.

“Brat,” Bahorel mutters fondly.

“What’s the matter with his parents?” Prouvaire asks, watching the boy through the window.

“They’re useless wretches,” Bahorel says without preamble. “They’re known for stealing people caught without their freedom papers and selling them into the slave trade, though no one bothers to stop them. Gavroche is their youngest, but he spends more time sleeping on the street than he does at home. He’s got two sisters still at home, Eponine and Azelma, though it’s harder to get them to come here. They do sometimes, when I can convince them. Eponine’s nineteen, Azelma seventeen, and I’m sure their father’s got them wrapped up in his business already. Thenardier knocks his daughters around, and the first time I saw Gavroche stealing from a stand of oranges there was a bruise on his face, so. I filled in the blanks.”

“That’s horrible,” Prouvaire says, thinking of how many bare-footed, ragged children he’d seen on his walk here, seemingly belonging to nothing except the city. The hunger in their eyes mixed with an odd hope at their state of freedom, some away from parents who were worse than the streets, but thrown into a society who cared so little for them, struck him as keenly now as it had on Guadeloupe. “I’m glad they have a friend on their side, at least.”

“I do what I can when they let me,” Bahorel says. “Now, what brings you here?”

“My father died four months ago,” Prouvaire says, feeling that odd, guilt-inducing mixture of sadness and relief swoop through his stomach. “It took me a bit to settle his affairs. And I…well…” he stumbles over his words, abruptly feeling shy. “I suppose it’s bizarre that I’d come here, we only met the once…”

“Nonsense,” Bahorel says, clapping him on the back with a smile stitched with mischief that sets Prouvaire’s heart at ease. “I gave you my address for a reason. It’s much easier to start anew with a friend.”

“A friend,” Prouvaire says, feeling a smile at his own lips when he hears the word. “Yes, that’s true.”

“Did you accomplish the ends you mentioned?” Bahorel asks, leaning on the front counter.

“I did,” Prouvaire says. “I sold the plantation to a planter who’d come into some money from a deceased relative, and who was known for hiring his workers. He doesn’t currently own any slaves, though I suppose I cannot do anything to prevent him from going that way.”

“No,” Bahorel says. “But we can hope for the best.”

“I released my father’s slaves,” Prouvaire continues. “Used some of the money from selling the plantation to help them get by and to get them passage where they wanted to go.”

“How many were there?” Bahorel asks.

“Thirty,” Prouvaire says. “Some of them were born into slavery, others not. I only hope they’re all right. It took some doing to get their freedom papers.”

“It’s a hard world we live in,” Bahorel answers. “But they’re free, and that’s certainly a start, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Prouvaire says, his earlier nerves at suddenly showing up here dissipating, impressed by Bahorel’s knack for making a person so quickly comfortable in his presence. “I’m…not even completely sure what I’m doing, I only knew I wanted to leave, that I wanted to sail.”

“The first thing you can do is come upstairs with me and have a celebratory drink,” Bahorel says. “It’s about time to close up shop anyhow.”

“All right,” Prouvaire says, smiling. “Where are your mother and sisters?”

“Over at the market,” Bahorel answers, leading him up the narrow staircase. “They should be back soon. They’ll be pleased to meet you.”

“Do they even know who I am?” Prouvaire asks.

“Oh I told them about you,” Bahorel says, uncorking a bottle of wine and taking two glasses from a small cabinet. “Had an inkling you might show up.”

“You did?” Prouvaire asks, quirking one eyebrow. “You tell the future now?”

“Maybe so,” Bahorel, glee shining in his dark brown eyes. “Perhaps I was keeping that a secret for later, didn’t want to divulge too much too fast.”

Prouvaire laughs, taking the glass from Bahorel and savoring the taste of good wine.

“So did you leave the ship you were working on?” Prouvaire asks.

“Yes,” Bahorel says, gulping his own wine. “Found some work repairing the canons on ships that dock here. It will do for now.”

“You know to repair _canons_?” Prouvaire asks, impressed though somehow not surprised.

“I know a great many things, my young lad,” Bahorel teases. “Weren’t we just discussing my being able to tell the future?”

“Young lad,” Prouvaire mutters. “You cannot be more than a handful of years older than myself.”

“I’m eight and twenty,” Bahorel says. “And you?”

“Twenty,” Prouvaire admits.

“Eight years on you, then,” Bahorel says, attempting to reach out and ruffle Prouvaire’s hair in jest, but Prouvaire leans back, nearly toppling his chair over, barely able to hang onto his wine glass, and the two of them erupt into laughter that doesn’t cease until the door opens.

“Causing trouble, Eli?” a woman asks, and Prouvaire looks up, seeing a lovely woman with dark brown hair and what he assumes are Bahorel’s sisters behind her.

“Usually, mother,” Bahorel answers, warm. “This is my friend Jean Prouvaire that I told you about. Prouvaire, my mother Adira Bahorel.”

“Hello,” Prouvaire says, cheeks still red with laughter. “I’m sorry to intrude on you like this, my boat just arrived.”

“Any friend of my son’s is a friend of mine,” Adira says with a smile reminiscent of her son’s. “These are my daughters Gavriella and Eliana.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eliana, who looks to be close to Prouvaire’s age, says, reaching out and shaking his hand. “I hope your journey was all right, there’ve been some storms lately.”

“Not so bad,” Prouvaire answers. “Though I do admit to some seasickness.”

“Should have had your hair cut before your friend arrived Eli,” Gavriella says, pulling on one of Bahorel’s black curls that he seems to keep short but are now falling into his eyes due to lack of maintenance. “And your beard is scraggly. Good to meet you, Jean Prouvaire.”

“I didn’t know when he was arriving, Gavriella,” Bahorel protests, swatting her hand away. “I only thought he would.”

“You should take him with you to Nassau,” Adira says, putting away the things she brought from the market as Eliana steals Bahorel’s wine glass, taking a sip herself. “That way you won’t be going by yourself. I’m still not completely convinced about this idea of yours, and though I’ve heard your talk of these good things on Nassau I’m sure there’s scoundrels there.”

“Mother,” Bahorel sighs, but Prouvaire hears the affection within it. “He just got here, I hadn’t told him yet. Besides, there’s scoundrels everywhere. Some hide within the law and some don’t, is the only difference.”

“Nassau?” Prouvaire asks, feeling excitement run through him. “The pirate island?”

“Pirates and wayward privateers,” Gavriella says. “Our landlord won’t renew our lease, you see. So we have three months to find a new home and place of business.”

“Why won’t he renew your lease?” Prouvaire asks, looking around at each of them. “You can’t find another building in Saint-Pierre?”

It’s quiet for a moment before Bahorel responds, sounding more downtrodden than Prouvaire’s yet heard him.

“A wealthy merchant came in,” Bahorel explains. “He’d heard of my mother’s reputation and commissioned her to tailor the coats of all the men on his ship. But in the end he felt he was overcharged and complained to our landlord about it. Called us cheats. The landlord proceeded to say he _shouldn’t have taken a risk on Jews anyway_. We tried to look for another building we could afford, but he’d already spread the word.”

“I’m so sorry,” Prouvaire says. “That’s horrible. I…is there anything I can do to help?”

“It would do my heart good if someone went to Nassau with Eli,” Adira says, softer than before. “Just in case these _pirates_ aren’t what they seem.”

“I’ll go,” Prouvaire says, eager.

“Prouvaire,” Bahorel protests. “Not that I’d mind your company, I certainly wouldn’t be bored, but you…”

“I have more than enough money to pay my way and no obligations,” Prouvaire says. “Besides, I’d quite like to see Nassau myself. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow after sundown,” Bahorel says. “On a, well, let’s say less than _lawful_ privateer ship. They tend to conduct their business after dark.”

“I’m in,” Prouvaire says.

“All right,” Bahorel says, grinning. “But I hope you’ve brought some of your books with you in those small bags. I’d like to read some of them. Also you’ll need a hat or I think the skin on your face will be burnt red forever.”

Prouvaire salutes him, feeling his own version of the same grin slide across his lips.

The next night as they settle place their bags near the hammocks they chose, Prouvaire wearing his new black leather tricorn hat, a question occurs to him.

“What will you do if Nassau doesn’t seem a good place to relocate your family?” Prouvaire asks.

“I don’t know,” Bahorel says. “Taking it one step at a time, for now. But something tells me it will be. I suspect we’ll both find our sort of people on the island. Just a hunch.”

“Our sort of people?” Prouvaire asks, flopping down into his hammock.

“You know,” Bahorel says. “Those people looking for something more than society offers. Something different. Rogues, undoubtedly,” he continues, delight dancing in his eyes.

“Undoubtedly,” Prouvaire echoes, crossing his arms behind his head.

He’s just closed his eyes however, when he hears Bahorel shout in surprise, and his eyes fly open as he sits up.

“What the devil!” Bahorel exclaims. “Gavroche what on earth? Why are you on this ship?”

“I sleep under the docks sometimes,” Gavroche says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, light brown hair swinging into his face. “And then I saw you two walking on the docks toward this ship and talking about pirates. I’ve always wanted to see pirates up close, so I thought I’d come along.”

“You’re stowing away,” Bahorel says. “No doubt without telling your sisters, at least.”

“And you’re sailing to a pirate island,” Gavroche points out.

“Fair enough, troublemaker,” Bahorel says, poking at Gavroche with his foot. “Well at least stick close, will you? I know you can take care of yourself,” he continues as Gavroche opens his mouth in protest. “Just indulge me, all right?”

“My mother says pirates broke into our house once,” Gavroche tells them, making himself at home on the edge of Bahorel’s hammock. “Two men and a woman who came and stole a girl who was a slave and took her away with them. My father swore revenge, but if I met those pirates _I’d_ shake their hands and tell them congratulations.”

“Well said,” Prouvaire replies, somehow feeling at home with these two new friends and on a ship sailing toward a place he’s never been.

“Nice hat,” Gavroche responds, beaming.

“Thank you,” Provaire says. “And if you get in trouble with the captain, I can pay for your passage. A favor from one man to another.”

“Much obliged,” Gavroche says. “You wouldn’t happen to have any food in that bag, would you? I’m starving.”

Prouvaire reaches in, pulling out an apple and tossing it to Gavroche, who catches it with ease. A few moments later they hear the crew raise the anchor and the ship pushes off from the docks.

“Well lads,” Bahorel says looking at each of them in turn, anticipation in his voice that matches the feeling in Prouvaire’s soul. “Seems it’s time for an adventure.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the end of Book I! We will be actually meeting Eponine later on, rather than just mentioning her, and Marius will also come up, but not until Book II. Just in case you were wondering. The beginning of Book II will jump back in time, and we will catch up with Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac about a yearand a half after they ran away from Port Royal, and their initial meeting with Valjean, Fantine, Cosette, and Feuilly. We'll also check in with Javert, Michel, and Astra. See you then!


	10. Book II (Coming Together): Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Enjolrases and Javert prepare to move from Port Royal to Kingston, and Javert recieves news of his new commission to the English Royal Navy, as well as an unexpected memento of Enjolras found in the midst of packing. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac reach Nassau after over a year of being on the run, finding help from an unexpected source when stealing from a food cart. Finally, their paths cross with Valjean, Fantine, Feuilly, and Cosette in a tavern, pieces of history and people in common coming to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go with the start of Book II! (There will be three books in total). This section will also take place over a number of years, and will detail all of the Amis coming together, as well as much more pirating! And lots of other things! The span of this will reach from about 1706-1713. 
> 
> Warning again in this chapter for use of the word "gypsy."

**Book II (Coming Together): Part 1**

**Port Royal Jamaica. 1706.**

Javert stands outside Michel’s office near the docks, unable to close his ears against the sound of rising voices on the other side of the door.

“It has been over a year now, Michel,” Governor Travers says. “A year and six months, in fact.”

“We will find them,” Michel presses. “The region is large but it is not so large…”

“People disappear in this area all the time,” the governor says, harsher even than Javert expects. “We do not even know if René is alive.”

“You would give up on him so easily?” Michel responds, and Javert hears real, unchecked anger at the governor in his voice for the first time. “Sir,” he adds hastily.

There’s a pause, and Javert pictures the governor leaning over Michel’s desk, looking at him over the rims of his gold spectacles.

“No,” he finally responds, and Javert detects the slightest hint of sadness in the older man’s voice. “But we must be realistic, Michel. Even with our money and influence, securing him a match with this blemish, assuming he’s alive and assuming we find him, will be more difficult than previously. His name is smeared with this.”

“He is more than just what match he would make, Andrew,” Michel says, voice low, and Javert recognizes the danger in it, shocked that Michel pushes back so much. Though if he’s honest, he’s suspected it for months as things reached the boiling point in this family he’s somehow become a part of. He’d heard Astra shout _perhaps you should have tried standing up to my father before they ran away_ , then slammed the door to her bedchamber as he’d walked inside to meet Michel just a few days ago. Time has not healed the wounds the René, Frantz, and Auden left in their absence. 

“Calm down, Michel,” Governor Travers says, condescension in his tone. “I am simply saying that René not only ran away, but he ran away in the company of that Combeferre boy…

“Sir, please,” Michel interrupts, sensitive to any mention of Arthur and by extension, Frantz.

“That boy was always a terrible influence,” the governor says, ignoring him. “I am simply saying that it is not entirely beyond the realm of reason for you and Astra to have another child. It is much less common of course, at your ages but the harm in not trying is much greater should we never find René, because you and I both will be without an heir.”

Ah, Javert thinks, there’s the part of the conversation he hadn’t accidentally overheard, and now he feels even more awkward standing here. There’s an even longer pause than before, and Javert heartily wishes the conversation would end.

“Astra won’t share your bed,” the governor finally says, catching on.

“Sir,” Michel protests, uncharacteristically flustered. “I would really rather not discuss these matters with anyone other than my wife.”

“Well,” the governor says, and Javert hears the threat in his voice, hears the silent, _I helped you rise up this high, and your business is my business_ that laces through his words even if he doesn’t say the them outright. “Simply woo her, then. You’re French, I thought that was supposed to be the talent of men in your country. I’m certain she’d return in response to your charms if you simply tried.”

At this, Javert very nearly laughs. For all the time Governor Travers spends at the Enjolras household, he is not well attuned to his daughter.

“I cannot give up on my son,” Michel says in response, though in a more even-tempered tone, his words hanging off on the end with a silent, _or Arthur’s_ , that he doesn’t voice aloud. 

“You don’t have to,” the governor says, delicate but firm all at once. “I am simply saying consider the cost if we never find René and if there is no new child. You’re a smart man, Michel, the finest son in law I could have hoped for, barring...a few indiscretions. kindly do not start disappointing me. Besides, you’ve got a lot to think of in the coming weeks, what with the relocation to Kingston.”

With that the conversation ends and the governor emerges, stepping out and spotting Javert, offering his usual stiff smile.

“Javert,” he says, nodding his head, seemingly unconcerned that they’ve likely been overheard. “I hope you’re well?”

“Yes Governor Travers I am, thank you,” Javert responds, clearing his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the governor as Michel emerges. “And yourself?”

“I’m well,” the governor responds, casting one last look at his son in law. “I won’t keep the two of you, I’m sure you have a great deal of work to do for the move. Good day.”

They both respond in kind, watching as the governor walks away before standing in solid silence for a moment, and Javert feels the awkwardness coating him, but doesn't know how to break it for fear of upsetting Michel.

“I apologize that you likely had to hear some of that,” Michel says, holding his hands behind his back and gazing out toward the sea. “I hadn’t expected it to take so long. Or for it to get quite so...personal.”

“It’s fine, sir,” Javert says, seeing the discomfort in Michel’s face. He pauses, pressing forward despite feeling exceedingly awkward. “Are you…all right?”

Michel gazes out past the docks for a moment, only half present, then responds.

“I am not quite myself,” Michel admits. “Things are tumultuous and there is…pressure.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the flyer Javert knows that he keeps there. _Missing_ is emblazoned across the top, with a sketch of René’s face in the center and Frantz’s and Auden’s below, all three names at the bottom, the contact and reward information on the back.

Javert remembers the night the three of them ran away, remembers getting up from the sand, humiliated and with a throbbing head. He’d walked to the Enjolras household slowly, putting off the inevitable, and was let in by Mrs. Hudson the housekeeper, who ushered him inside. The house was dark, lit by only a few candles in the drawing room where Michel sat, a glass of brandy in his hand, hair smoothed back but his clothes disheveled. Javert suspected he’d been with his mistress, but the thought seemed something like a far off echo. The moment he told Michel the news the older man stood up, dropping his glass, the amber liquid spilling across the carpet, tears springing to his eyes as he walked to the edge of the room and shouted Astra’s name, his trembling hand grasping Javert’s shoulder as if it was a lifeline. Later that night when it was clear there was nothing for it until morning and Astra had made it clear she wanted to be left alone by locking her door, Javert walked back into the drawing room with another glass of brandy for Michel, finding his captain with his head in his hands, words he wasn’t meant to hear on his lips.

_“I’m weak, Arthur. I have failed, and I am sorry.”_

Javert found he couldn't forget the words, memories of the night Arthur died spinning in his head. It was the only other time he saw Michel Enjolras look truly vulnerable.

“I had simply thought we’d have found them, by now,” Michel says, drawing Javert back into the present.

“I know, sir,” Javert answers. “We _will_ find them.”

Michel traces the sketch of René with tip of his finger before clearing his throat and putting the flyer back in his pocket, anger lining his face for a moment before he washes it off his face, replacing it with another expression.

“Yes, well,” Michel says. “That isn’t what I asked you here for. I have news for you.”

“News?” Javert asks.

At this Michel smiles, pulling a much cleaner piece of paper out of his inside coat pocket, bearing the seal of the English Royal Navy. Javert takes it, eyes looking up and meeting Michel’s in surprise. He breaks the seal, eyes skimming over the words.

“A naval commission?” Javert asks, something he recognizes as a sort of muted joy rising in his chest.

“Yes indeed my good sir,” Michel responds. “There’s no buying commissions in the English Navy, but I have several close contacts in their ranks…”

“Sir,” Javert interrupts. “I couldn’t possibly…”

“And they have heard of your talents,” Michel says, holding up a hand and stopping Javert in his protests. “And all the skills that recommend you. I of course told them of your discipline and your courage, that you're one of the finest men I’ve ever worked with. And that you’ve also become a dear personal friend.”

“Sir, I…” Javert says, embarrassed that he cannot seem to complete a coherent sentence. He counts all the things Michel Enjolras has done for him, and feels almost overwhelmed, hardly able to process what’s happening.

“It’s a special commission, actually,” Michel continues, a rare grin on his face at Javert’s loss of poise, and Javert finds it reminds him strikingly of Arthur. “Doing work to curb piracy in the region. You know Admiral Collins?”

“The officer who works most with you and East India?” Javert says, remembering.

“It’s one of his ships,” Michel says. “So although I’m letting them snap you up, I couldn’t let go of working with you regularly. I know I'd still see you socially, but we make a good pair, I feel. If you accept you’re set to start in six months’ time.”

“I…” Javert tries again. “Thank you sir. I suppose Kingston will truly be a new start." He clears his throat against the emotion pushing up, hoping he can keep his voice steady. "I hope you know my gratitude for everything you have done for me. Since the beginning. The chance you took on me.”

Michel clasps his shoulder with warmth, an exceedingly familiar gesture Javert’s gotten used to over the years, but there’s something in his eyes, something desperate.

“I know,” Michel responds. “But you are the worthiest shall we say, protégé, I could have hoped for, a talented sailor, and an upstanding man. And you have also been a friend when I was in great need of one. I cannot thank you enough for that.”

“Of course,” Javert says, nodding. His eyes dart out to the sea, but he’s only just given his thoughts of Valjean and Fantine credence when Michel speaks again.

“You’re thinking this is an opportunity to search for Fauchelevent, or well, Valjean, I suppose is his name, as you've said, and the slave woman, aren’t you?” he asks, but there’s less chiding in his voice than concern.

“I am partly responsible for Valjean and Fantine's ability to perpetuate their lawlessness,” Javert says, looking over at Michel, a particular vulnerability in his voice that he would never share with anyone else, and still can hardly believe he allows it with anyone. “I feel it’s my responsibility, if given the chance, to stop it.”

Michel considers him for a moment, a small smile on his face. Javert cannot help but recall its similarity with how he looked at René.

“I understand,” he says. “The pirate threat is growing all over, especially with Nassau abandoned and overtaken. I imagine, however, that our combined skills will be quite effective in ridding the region of such villainy.”

“Yes sir,” Javert agrees, a rare smile on his face. “I think you’re right.”

“Would you mind accompanying me back to the house for a few minutes?” Michel asks. “I’m afraid I need to retrieve my log, I left it in my study and need to search for it among the boxes.”

Javert nods in assent, following Michel’s lead back toward the house. He looks around Port Royal as they go, thinking that it will take some getting used to, being away from here. Port Royal seemed a magnet for natural disasters, and though they were always rebuilding most of the sea trade was relocating to Kingston, and the colonial capital had moved to Spanish-Town. Governor Travers-though Javert supposes he’ll have to call him Baron Travers henceforth- had already purchased a home in Kingston near Michel and Astra’s new home, and was to resign his royal governorship in a month’s time. At sixty-four he must want more time for leisure, though Javert also knows that he’s taking on some political appointments that concern some oversight over East India's trade.

“I have news as well,” Michel says after a few moments. “Another ship is to come under my command. I received the news from London this morning. So when we reach Kingston I suppose I shall be Commodore. I admit I quite like the sound of it.”

“Congratulations sir,” Javert says, his interest piqued. “You’ve certainly earned it.”

“We both have, I think,” Michel says. “I shall have to have a new sword commissioned for you Javert, for your joining the Royal Navy to mark the occasion.”

“Sir, you don’t…”

“I know I don’t have to,” Michel says, turning to him as they reach the door, and Javert sees that desperate look again. “But allow me my indulgences, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Javert says, a sense of pride filling him up. When he’d first stepped on Michel’s ship he hadn’t expected this combination of mentor and friend, this man who would make him a de-facto part of his family. Sometimes he still isn’t sure what to make of it.

They reach the front door and go inside, finding Astra near the stairs, arranging some of the packed cases, a few stray tendrils slipping out of her normally perfectly arranged hair. She turns to greet them, surprised.

“Hello my dear,” Michel says, and Javert hears the nerves in his voice even though he’s smiling. He leans down, kissing Astra’s cheek, and she allows it, the look in her eyes sad rather than the low-level anger he’s come to expect since the boys ran away. Her posture is stiff, and she doesn’t lean into the touch.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she says. “I was just checking on these cases Mrs. Hudson brought down. Hello, Javert,” she says with a brief nod.

“I’m just here for my ship log,” Michel says. “I left it in my study. It didn’t get packed, I hope?”

“Not yet,” Astra responds. “I thought you might like to direct that.”

She leans forward, hand reaching out and adjusting Michel’s crooked cravat, blown out of place by the wind. There’s no romance in her touch, just habit and faded affection wishing it were new and bright. Her lips quirk upward just slightly, melancholy stretched across her face. At first, Javert remembers, there had been shouting and fighting and anger between them. There still was, but it had morphed into distance and odd instances like this, out of place moments where they both recalled some past happiness, recognizing that through their differences, and they were immense, they’d lost the same thing.

“Thank you,” Michel says. “I thought Javert might like to take a last look around the house, before we leave in a few days, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly,” Astra says, looking at Javert for a fleeting moment as she did so many years ago, fondness there for a fleeting moment before it vanishes. “There might even be knick knacks of yours around, you should look.”

Javert nods, sensing they need a moment alone, and heads toward the stairs, their voices floating toward him even still.

“What did my father want?” Astra asks, and Javert hears a hint of anger again.

“He,” Michel begins, uneasy, and Javert quickens his step, having heard enough of Michel and Astra’s extremely private business for one day.

He walks up the stairs, filled with memories as he looks around at the near empty house, the hallway stacked with cases and boxes, his footsteps echoing in the absence of the laughter that used to flow forth from René and Frantz's rooms. He stands in front of Frantz’s room, noticing how pristine it is, the covers made more thoroughly than Frantz would have kept them, rumpled as they usually were from him curling up and reading in bed. There’s a stack of maps still on the bedside table, one of his jackets laying across the chair in the corner.

He finds himself in front René's room next, but cannot make himself enter. He hasn't had any cause to come upstairs since the boys ran away, so it's the first time he's looked at the room in over a year. For all the time that's passed it looks exactly the same, not even covered in a layer of dust, both rooms kept clean by the housekeeper, likely, at Astra's request. The sea paintings still hang on the wall, the sun light hitting them just so. Books rest on the window-seat, and there's a pair of abandoned shoes resting next to it as if René had just slid them off to read. Javert's eyes trail to the bed, his eyes catching on a familiar object. 

René's wooden toy sword. 

That definitely hadn't originally been on the bed, Javert thinks, but probably placed there for sentimental reasons. The boy had hardly been without it for years, always going about with it practically attached to his hand. Unbidden, Javert remembers the warmth in his chest the night he carried René home when he and Frantz fell asleep on the beach. There's an echo of that feeling now, but he pushes it away, down deep until he can't feel it anymore. The boy doesn't deserve any of his emotion, and it's useless besides. 

He hears footsteps behind him, firm but still gentler than Michel’s, and after a moment Astra stands beside him, arms crossed over her chest almost in a protective gesture as she leans against the doorframe, eyes landing on the same spot.

“You should have it,” she says, more kindness in her voice than he’s come to expect in the past months.

“Pardon?” Javert asks, turning toward her, though the shadows spinning webs across her eyes leaves him with a feeling of guilt he refuses to admit as such.

“The sword,” Astra says, softer. “You should take it.”

“I couldn’t, Madam,” Javert says, placing his hands behind his back and looking down again.

“It obviously means something to you or you wouldn’t be standing here,” she snaps, and Javert hears the now familiar anger in her tone again.

Silence wedges between them for a moment, thick and suffocating.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Javert says, turning away. “I’ll be going.”

“Javert,” she says, removing the harshness from her voice, though the lack of trust is apparent in the flatness. “Wait.”

He turns back around, hands still behind his back, though he unconsciously twists his fingers.

“Yes, Madam Enjolras?” he asks.

“I really think you should have it,” she repeats, a pinch of warmth edging into the frost in her eyes, though it feels more like a memory than the here and now. “There’s no need to pretend like what happened didn’t happen. I have my mementos. So does Michel. So should you.”

Javert pauses, attempting to read her, but as usual he cannot. She’s always been a mystery, but now she is even more so.

“Forgive me Madam,” he says, keeping his tone even, indicating that he means no disrespect. “But I didn’t think you’d want me to have something like that. I know you were not…”

“Pleased with the way you treated René and Frantz in those last years and months? No I wasn’t. My fury at what Michel allowed and what my father did, and you refusing to question them and help me try and stop it?” she asks, a challenge in her eyes that reminds Javert abruptly of her son. “That has not changed. I may be Michel’s wife and my father’s daughter, but I am a woman and therefore listened to less than you might have been. But I know what those sparring lessons meant to you. We’re all guilty. But it doesn’t mean we cannot do them justice by remembering our better selves.”

She speaks, he notices, almost as if the boys are dead rather than missing and he doesn’t like the pang it causes in the pit of his stomach. He supposes it isn’t out of the question, but he suspects the three of them are alive, hiding among the hustle and bustle of a region where people come from all over, taking on new identities and blending in with the crowd. The countless ships made it even easier. There’s something odd in her eyes as well, almost as if she’s keeping a secret, but she’s been doing that for a long as he’s known her, even if he never knew what any of them were.

“Well,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “I will take it, then.”

She nods, watching him walk into the room and retrieve the toy off the bed. He takes one look around the room, hearing René’s voice despite himself.

_Javert! Papa got me two new wooden swords since the old ones were splintering._

He shakes his head, chasing away the voice and the shadowy images of René, Frantz, and later Auden sitting on the window-seat. The sword feels heavier in his hands than he remembers, and he feels foolish carrying a toy, but he takes it nevertheless.

“Thank you, Madam,” Javert says. “I should leave you to the packing, then.”

“Javert?” Astra asks again. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m so insistent on this.”

He looks at her, indicating that he’s listening, and she continues.

“I wanted you to have it because I remember the young man who first joined my husband’s crew and played pretend with my son,” she says. He sees her blink back tears, and they do not fall. “I remember the young man who made a lonely child happy. Even if it wasn’t something he was used to doing. And I wanted you to remember that young man. And learn something from him.”

Javert stares at her, his breath hitching in his chest for a moment until he can ease it again.

“Good day, Madam,” he says without further elaboration, tipping his hat to her before going back down the stairs and to the front door to wait for Michel. Astra doesn’t follow him, disappearing back down the hallway. He looks at the sword again, huffing. He certainly can do nothing about Astra Enjolras’ determination to erase any of René’s fault in this, to deny the life he’d refused despite all his father had given him. The past was the past, and the fact was that René had run away, taking Frantz and Auden with him and spitting in the face of a life handed to him on a platter. Javert had no doubt that when they found him, and they _would_ find him, that it would be a long road pulling him out of whatever delinquency he no doubt discovered. If, Javert thinks, it could even be done at all.

* * *

Later that night with the last of his cases packed for the journey to Kingston in three days’ time, Javert finds himself walking along the shore after dark, as has become habit when he cannot sleep. After a few minutes he spots the old abandoned dock jutting out over the water and walks across it, carrying the small wooden sword with him for reasons he doesn’t understand. The night is the opposite of the one when René first asked him to play; the stars are faded, the constellations hidden and covered with clouds, a painting of darkness, the moon the only splash of light showing him the way as it drips down onto the waves, glinting off the edges.

_Will you play swords with me sir?_

Javert stares at the chipped, worn wooden sword in his hands. He remembers René pressing the second one into his hands years ago, his hands warm against Javert's usually chilled fingertips.

"You keep this one," 8-year-old René had said, that shy, but still bright smile on his face, yet untouched by his grandfather's slap, Arthur Combeferre's death, or distance from his father. There was a touch of the world in it, as if he knew of the oncoming storm that would shatter his family, but it was outshone by hope.

"They're safer with you," Javert had protested.

"I want you to keep it," René said, persistent. "Please, Javert?"

"All right," Javert said after a moment. "If you're so insistent."

He'd kept it in the corner of his bedroom for years, collecting dust until he tossed it out one day, not really giving it a second thought, useless as it was for how advanced his sword lessons with René had become. But the boy had kept his. A slice of moonlight catches on some writing toward the edge, and Javert sees a childish scrawl written in black ink, faded, but still visible.

_R. Enjolras._

Something erupts in Javert when he lays eyes on the name, and though he expects hot, unyielding anger to flood him, all he feels is cold, his blood frozen. He tightens his grip around the handle and the edge, breaking the middle over his knee in one swift movement and splitting the sword in half. Javert accidentally nicks his finger with the edge of one of the pieces, a small trickle of blood falling down the skin. A payment in absentia, he supposes, for the blood he'd drawn when he struck René that night he ran away. He'd let his temper get the better of him, but though he'd been surprised at himself, he couldn't say he was sorry. He remembers the look in René's eyes that glimmered with the pain of what he obviously perceived as a broken promise.

_I will not strike you, René. I have never done so._

He shakes his head, tossing the first piece of the sword out into the ocean, his eyes lingering on the handwriting on the other until he throws it into the water as well, watching a wave swallow up both pieces.

“I will _find_ you, boy,” he whispers, remembering with startling clarity the exhaustion on Michel’s face after weeks of searching, his voice hoarse as he asked Javert to take the wheel. They’d searched with some help from Aldridge Courfeyrac at first, but eventually the other man gave up, distracted by his new child on the way, though he had helped them get more of the missing flyers out. If René had just _behaved_ , Javert tells himself, if he’d simply done _as he was told_ , then none of this would have happened. There would be no trail of cracked people left in his wake. He was rebellious to the point of destruction, and Javert possessed no sympathy for such a thing. Javert snorts. Such much potential thrown into what will surely become the life of a criminal. “I will find all three of you.”

His limbs tremble with icy rage, but something floating back up in the water catches his eye. Barely visible in the darkness, the shattered sword breaks through the ocean's surface before bubbling once more beneath the overwhelming current.

 _What if you’re wrong?_ a small voice asks in the back of his head, and he realizes that it sounds vaguely like Frantz’s, seeing the boy’s sharp, intelligent eyes in his mind, eyes that resembled his father’s, dark brown and kind, though the rest of the boy no doubt resembles his mother. Arthur Combeferre always confused Javert, a man who was undoubtedly good, who was respected, but who did not always follow the rules society dictated. He was not irreproachable.

_You know René looks at you a bit like a brother, right?_

If he’s honest, he welcomes the move to Kingston, because as he looks at the beach around him, all he sees are ghosts.

“I am not wrong,” he says aloud to himself, standing up straighter.

The two pieces buoy once more before sinking beneath the swell, disappearing into the waves smeared black by the sky.

“I’m _not_ wrong,” he repeats as if speaking to the inanimate object floating once more beneath the surface.

With that he turns to go, walking back down the dock with a sure, determined stride. He doesn’t look back to see one half of the sword wash back upon shore, lodging in the wet sand, the water bubbling over the initials at the bottom before pulling back again.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, the Bahamas. 1706**

Enjolras jolts, waking up abruptly. He opens his eyes, taking a moment to survey his surroundings as the sun comes up over the water. Right, Nassau. They’d docked here yesterday on a ship that was technically still a privateer vessel but had certainly ceased most of its legal activity a while ago. On his left and right are Combeferre and Courfeyrac, still asleep, though both look restless; Combeferre’s hand holds tight to his knapsack even in sleep, and Courfeyrac’s eyes are scrunched tight as if he’s having a bad dream. Enjolras sits up, shaking sand from his hair. With nowhere else to go they’d found a half sandy, half grassy spot secluded by some trees for safety and slept there. It was warm, at least, Enjolras considers, though as his stomach growls, staging a protest against lack of food, he looks down at his bag, reminded that it’s utterly devoid of money. His mother’s money and the money they’d earned in their card games in Port Royal had gotten them through the first eight months as they carefully budgeted, though they’d been forced to buy new clothes as they started outgrowing some of their older ones. They found on and off work on privateer and pirate ships that didn’t ask questions, working as cabin boys and powder monkeys, but the missing flyers with their faces on them made that difficult. Enjolras remembers one night a few months in as the three of them huddled together in their tiny inn room, listening at the door as naval soldiers came into the tavern downstairs asking if anyone had seen three missing boys. At the sound of their names and the creak of the stair they’d seized their belongings and climbed out the window, running into the darkness. That, Enjolras remembers, was the first night they slept on a beach. They’d had a great deal of their money stolen on one of the regular merchant ships where they found work without being recognized, and when they brought it up the captain had them thrown off. Needless to say, the months after that were even more difficult, and they’d spent their last coins getting passage here to Nassau.

Yet even as exhaustion seeps into his bones and hunger pulls at his stomach, Enjolras feels hope bubble up in his chest, greeting him like an old friend that he cannot ever abandon. The sun peeks over the horizon, casting a red glow over the water and Enjolras thinks of watching this same scene from the deck of his father’s ship. Missing his father and Javert is complicated, because he misses who they were and who they could be rather than who they are, anger and fear and unhappiness taking root when he thinks of the later years. He misses his mother like a dull ache every day, though he certainly doesn’t miss his grandfather in the slightest. He smiles as he looks at Combeferre and Courfeyrac on either side of him. He fingers the edge of red cravat he’d purchased when they’d been forced to buy new clothes. It’s already faded from the sun and worn from salt-water, but the memory of buying it warms him.

“Why red?” Enjolras asked as Courfeyrac handed it to him with a smile.

“It looks like the sunrises you love so much,” Courfeyrac had said, pushing it into his hands. “The sun rising to a new beginning for us.”

The rest of the clothes are ill-fitting; all of his clothes for as long as he could remember were custom made and these were bought in a hurry and already growing small, but the cravat was just right. He feels the cough that’s been lingering in his chest push up and burst out again. It hadn’t hurt at first, but now it feels like pins and needles in his chest.

He hears rustling beside him and looks over, finding Combeferre awake and putting on his spectacles.

“Morning,” he says, looking around readjusting to the new environment. “Everything all right? You looked like you were lost in thought.”

“So perceptive and you just woke up,” Enjolras says, fondly teasing. “I was just…reflecting, I suppose.”

“As you so often do,” Combeferre answers, scooting closer and looping his arm through Enjolras’, an old habit by now. “I heard you still coughing, are you all right?”

“I think so,” Enjolras says. “It hurts a bit, but I’m sure it will ease up.”

Normally Combeferre would tell him he needed medicine for it, that he shouldn’t be so stubborn, but they haven’t got the money now besides, so they sit in companionable silence. Enjolras leans his head on Combeferre’s shoulder a moment, relieved once more that they’re away from Jamaica, away from his father’s threat of separation, away from his grandfather’s constant shadow, away from that night on the ship when they discovered the slaves, though that memory will never leave them.

“Your father would be proud of us,” Enjolras says, lifting his head and turning to look at Combeferre. “Of you.”

“I think so too,” Combeferre replies, eyes searching Enjolras’ face before darting back out to sea, a half-smile ghosting across his face as if he’s picturing his father in front of him. “I hope perhaps Nassau will help us find clues to where my mother might be if…if she’s alive. It seems like the right place.”

“It does,” Enjolras agrees, hearing Courfeyrac shuffling beside them.

Courfeyrac looks at them blearily, rubbing his eyes as he sits up, shaking the sand from his curls.

“You two having a moment without me, are you?” he asks, sliding up to join them, sitting on Enjolras’ other side.

“We were just waiting for you,” Enjolras says dryly, arching one eyebrow.

“And look,” Combeferre adds. “The sun is just now fully up. Just in time.”

“So it is,” Courfeyrac says, though his words are interrupted by the sound of his stomach growling. “Ah,” he continues. “I suppose we haven’t eaten properly since evening before last, have we?”

 “No,” Combeferre says. “Just that small bit of bread yesterday afternoon on the ship. Though none of us have any money left at all, I’m afraid. Not that it would be the first time we’ve stolen food.”

“The market we saw might be less crowded in the morning,” Courfeyrac points out. “More carts left unattended and such. Now might be the time. I’d say we could try fishing, but no tools for that, either.”

“Good point,” Enjolras says. “Let’s go, the market wasn’t far from here, was it?”

“Just about a quarter of a mile,” Combeferre says, standing up and dusting himself off before lifting his knapsack onto his shoulders.

“Do lead the way,” Courfeyrac says. “I scarcely remember anything from last night, it was too dark. Everything looks foreign in the light.”

“And to think I’m the one with the impaired vision,” Combeferre chuckles.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, flicking Combeferre affectionately on the arm. “But you are the one with a sense of direction. I’m hopeless. Ever the navigator it would seem, even on land.”

They all laugh, following Combeferre in the direction of the market, which is largely deserted as Courfeyrac predicted. Enjolras’ boots pinch his toes; their boots had still been manageable when they purchased new clothes, so they’d kept their old ones to save money, but now his own are too small and Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s are thin and peeling at the soles, leaving them with blisters on their feet.

“There,” Courfeyrac says, pointing at a stand filled with oranges. “The owner isn’t there and it’s at the end of the row for an easy escape. And there’s no one across from him. Agreed?”

Enjolras and Combeferre nod in agreement and Courfeyrac leads the way, gesturing for the other two to stand behind him as a cover. He’s just touched the first piece of fruit, however, when a shout breaks through the air.

“Hey!” a man says, storming up from the direction they’d planned for their escape. “Just what do you think you’re doing stealing from my cart?”

“Stealing?” Courfeyrac says, putting on his best charming grin. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees a woman at a stand a few down observing them, pushing her curtain of straight black hair behind her ear. “We were just examining the product.”

“I’m sure,” the man says, disbelief in his voice. “If that’s so then where’s your money?”

“Well we weren’t sure we were going to buy from you just yet,” Courfeyrac says, though his voice is less certain this time.

“No one steals from my cart,” the man says, raising a hand as if to strike Courfeyrac. Enjolras and Combeferre slide in on either side, ready to bear part of the hit, but before the man’s hand comes down the woman Enjolras saw a moment ago calls out to him, walking over.

“Oh let them go, Abney,” she says, and Enjolras notices her clothing is different than most of what he’s seen women don since they ran away. She wears a long medium blue skirt tied at the waist that falls to her ankle and a loose tan blouse, as well as a vest. Enjolras remembers spotting women dressed in a similar way when he’d gone with his family on a visit to Kingston, remembers his grandfather spitting out the word _gypsies_ as they passed. Javert, accompanying them, had flinched. It was the first time Enjolras noticed.

 _My parents were of Romani descent_ , he hears Javert say, the memory of the last night they’d shared a semblance of their old relationship burgeoning in his mind.

“And just why would I do that?” the man called Abney asks, drawing Enjolras back into the moment.

“Because they’re boys who are obviously hungry,” the woman answers, irritation in her grey eyes. “And I’m sure you’ve got something better to do than make a show of dominance.”

The man huffs but backs away. “Don’t try and steal from me again, brats,” he says. “Or I won’t be so merciful next time.”

The woman rolls her eyes, gesturing at them to follow her.

“You chose the wrong person to steal from, lads,” she says, her eyes lingering on Enjolras’ face as if she recognizes him.

“This is a pirate island,” Combeferre says, crossing his arms. “Aren’t things supposed to be more equal here?”

“Yes,” the woman answers. “But not everyone is here for the ideals, I’m afraid. And although pirates do a lot of stealing they don’t like being stolen from, you see. Particularly brutes like Abney.”

“Thank you for helping us,” Enjolras adds, and she’s still contemplating him.

“You look familiar,” she says, narrowing her eyes in thought. “Have I seen you around here before?”

“Probably,” Enjolras lies. Despite the fact that they’re on a pirate island, he still trusts no one with their true identities, even if these are the last people who would report them. In fact, he worries his last name would cause nothing but distrust on their part, and he couldn’t blame them. “The three of us have been here a while.”

“Right,” the woman answers, not convinced. “Tell me, when was the last time you ate, if you were so desperate as to steal oranges?”

“Yesterday,” Enjolras says. “But we’ll just…be going. Thank you again.”

“To steal from someone else?” she asks, and there is something familiar in the way she raises her eyebrows at him.

When there’s no answer she sighs, but Enjolras sees her lips quirk upward.

“Come on then,” she says. “I’ll get you something.” She eyes them up and down, concern flickering in her eyes. “You look like you could use a place to rest.”

“We’re fine,” Enjolras says, too quickly and defensive.

“Fine sleeping on a beach?” she asks, eyeing the sand on their clothing.

“We’d rather sleep on a beach than go back where we came from,” Combeferre says.

“Well, I can’t just let you go hungry,” she replies. “So come on, follow me. I live just down the way.”

Without any more reason for an argument the three follow her, walking silently for a few minutes until they reach a small one-room home not far from the market. She ushers them inside, indicating they should sit down at the little round table in the corner of the room as she goes about looking through cabinets and pulling down some fruit, bread, and cheese.

“I’m Tiena,” she says. “And you three are?”

“I’m Auden,” Courfeyrac answers. “The one with the spectacles is Frantz, the one with blond hair is René.”

“Charmed, I’m sure, as they say,” she says, putting three wooden plates in front of them. “Start with this.”

“We’re very grateful,” Enjolras says, his stomach leaping at the sight of food. “But why are you helping us?”

“Turns out I did come here for the ideals,” she says, a real smile on her face now, though the ends are clipped so it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which is fortunate for the three of you. Though I spend more time on this island than I do sailing, these days.”

“What do you sell in the market?” Combeferre asks, taking a bit of the cheese and wrapping it in bread, ravenous.

“Clothing, mostly,” Tiena answers. “Some I make from my own materials, some I make from stolen silks and things from East India and merchant ships that pirates on the ships bring me. There’s a whole economy starting here, since it fell out of English hands.”

Enjolras is glad his hand is occupied with his grapes, otherwise the twitch in his hand might not have gone unnoticed. Tiena watches them eat for a moment, noticing how quickly they shovel the food into their mouths.

“Are you sure it’s only been a day since you ate?” she asks, pulling her hair over to one side and shifting it over her shoulder.

“Well technically we only had a bit of bread yesterday,” Courfeyrac answers between mouthfuls. “We haven’t eaten properly since two days ago.”

“Well,” she says, a hint of sadness in her tone now as she turns away, taking a plate for herself and filling it. “Eat up. I know how much young lads can go through and I can’t send you out back into the world hungry or you might try and steal from the wrong person again.”

She joins them at the table for a moment, her long sleeves sliding back as she reaches forward to take a bit. Enjolras' eyes catch on a leather bracelet as she does so, and he nearly jumps for how familiar it looks. The same designs are etched into the leather as Javert's bracelet that is buried deep in his bag. He thought that he recognized her, and he was almost certain she was of Romani descent, but there were so many people in the world he hadn’t thought it possible. For a moment, he can’t tear his eyes away. He looks away, realizing himself, but Tiena's already noticed.

"Something the matter?" she asks, an edge in her voice now.

"No," he says, looking down again, though he feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s worried eyes on him. "Nothing."

"You were looking at my bracelet," she replies, not letting the matter drop. "Pointedly. Care to tell me why?"

"I..." Enjolras tries, unable to answer her because how can he even explain? He makes a decision, turning and rifling through his bag until he finds the bracelet at the bottom, having gotten rid of the box of old ammunition long ago.

He pulls it out, Combeferre and Courfeyrac eyeing it curiously. They'd seen the outside of it the night they ran away, but Enjolras hadn't elaborated on it since. He hadn't wanted to keep it from them, but something in his heart couldn't tell Javert's secret. It was silly, he supposed, because of everything that happened, but a small piece of him still hoped for the man he'd known as a child. Or at the very least, the man he'd _thought_ he'd known. He hands it over slowly, watching the surprise spread in her eyes as she recognizes it, taking it from him and instantly looking for the etching on the inside. When she sees it, she looks back at Enjolras, confusion in her eyes rather than the anger he expected.

"This belonged to my son," she says, and Enjolras sees the surprise in her eyes morph into worry, obviously thinking Javert might be dead. "Is he...is he dead?"

"You're Javert's _mother_?" Combeferre asks, mouth dropping open in surprise.

"If you mean Nicholas Javert," she says. "Then yes. He...he would be about 31 years old now. He has my same eyes. Are we talking about the same man?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, unconsciously touching the scar over his eyebrow where Javert struck him. “That’s him.”

“Please tell me if he's all right," she says, voice cracking, and Enjolras finds he scarcely knows how to respond. It doesn’t help when he imagines his own mother missing him, unable to communicate or know whether he’s safe or not. 

"He's alive," Enjolras says, watching Courfeyrac shake his head in disbelief before looking back at Tiena. "Or he was a year and a half ago when three of us ran away from home. I doubt it's changed, I’m sure he’s fine."

"How do you know him?" she asks. "Why do you have his bracelet?"

"He works for my father, Captain Michel Enjolras of the East India Trading Company," Enjolras says, saying his father's name to a stranger for the first time since running away, and he hopes he hasn't made a mistake, but he’s left with little room to lie. "And I didn't mean to steal it."

"You didn't _mean_ to steal it?" she asks, clasping the bracelet tighter. She breathes in, calming down and closing her eyes for a moment. "Let's start from the beginning. You said he works for your father?"

"Since I was six," Enjolras says.

"You're the boys from the missing posters I saw," she says. "I knew I recognized you."

“Please don’t tell anyone,” Enjolras says, not pleading but firm. “We can’t risk it. We cannot go back where we came from. We cannot let them catch us. We can’t.”

“I won’t,” she says, softening her voice. “I’ve kept my share of secrets.” She looks at Enjolras again, eyes landing on the small scar.

“Did Nicholas give you that?” she asks, indicating the scar. “You were touching it.”

Enjolras finds he cannot quite make himself answer. How on earth does he tell this woman that her son, the son she’s obviously been missing, shares the absolute opposite ideology from her? Differing ideologies that have real-world consequences?

“We were running away,” Combeferre supplies. “And Ja…Nicholas, he caught us. There was a bit of a tussle.”

“You were close?” Tiena asks.

“Once,” Enjolras says, wistful. “He taught me a lot of what I know about sword-fighting, and when Frantz and I were small he would play with us, build sand castles, that sort of thing.”

“He was a part of your family,” she says, and it’s not a question, but a statement of fact.

Enjolras nods, still having trouble articulating.

“I spent years looking for him,” she says, her voice filling the silence. “But I could never find him. I looked all over but you know how it is, I’m sure. The sea makes people disappear, sometimes. Did he…did he mention me?”

“He mentioned his heritage to me once,” Enjolras answers. “That he was of Romani descent. And he…”

“He’s ashamed,” she says, her voice sadder than Enjolras can take, and he feels another ball of anger at Javert form in his stomach. “I’m not surprised. We experienced a lot of hardship because of it.” She pauses, looking at them. “I’m sure he thinks I abandoned him but it couldn’t be further from the truth. We got separated in a crowd and I was kidnapped by privateers who realized I was Romani and thought they might sell me into slavery. I escaped from the ship, but by then it was too late. Nicholas was twelve. I…I’m going to step outside for a moment. But you eat, I’ll be back.”

“How do we tell her that her son’s turned into…himself,” Courfeyrac asks when the door closes. “I feel terrible for her.”

“I think we answer the questions she has,” Combeferre replies, eyes on Enjolras as he coughs again. “It’s hard, but I sense she can handle it. Besides, I think she already understands. He works for East India and all that implies. So accepted by society, less so by the people on this island.”

“She seems to just want to know about him,” Enjolras adds. “We are at least, the best people to answer to that other than my father.”

“You’re all right talking about him?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Not really, but it is what it is,” Enjolras says, though if he’s honest, the thought of talking at length with anyone about the past other than the two beside him, sends a swoop of anxiety through his stomach. “If she has questions, we have the answers. Not for all the years she missed, obviously, but for the past decade or so. As long as the two of you are comfortable with it. We have to make the decisions about who to trust together.”

“She’s just as interested in keeping her identity hidden from the law as we are,” Courfeyrac replies. “So I don’t see the harm. She doesn’t seem to think we’re spies for East India, either, so the other side of the coin seems safe.”

“Well,” Combeferre says dryly. “We look a bit rough for spies. Spies probably have boots that aren’t falling apart, at least.”

“True,” Enjolras says. “And besides, I doubt they’d send sixteen-year-olds to spy. Seems a bad strategy.”

The door opens again and the three of them fall silent, watching Tiena. Her eyes are red as if she’s been crying, but they’re dry. A similarity, she thinks, with her son, who inevitably dashed away the moment he felt any kind of strong emotion.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sitting down again. “I was simply a bit overcome. When I couldn’t find him for all those years I feared he had died. I didn’t think…I suppose I didn’t consider that he’d end up working for East India or anything similar. Though I imagine perhaps that I should have.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“He was always so stern as a child,” she says, and Enjolras isn’t surprised. “We spent a lot of time jumping from ship to ship with his father, we fell into piracy eventually. Nicholas didn’t like the looks people would give me and by extension him. He looks so similar to me, though with lighter skin so people suspect less, I imagine, if he’s not with me and he’s dressed differently. I told him never to be ashamed of his heritage, but it seems he’d rather make himself fit into the hierarchy. Does that sound correct?”

“Yes, it does,” Enjolras says, disliking the pain the words cause her, but also sensing she would not appreciate a lie.

“Is he happy?” she asks.

“I…” Enjolras tries, and he cannot remember another moment where he had such trouble articulating himself. He’s not certain Javert knows how to be happy. “He likes his job. And he’s close with my father, a bit like a younger brother or second son to him. He does well for himself by society’s standards. I suppose that would be his definition of the word.”

She looks at him for a moment, but he cannot read her expression. Another commonality with Javert.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” she says, and he knows she’s talking about more than just his scar. “I won’t make you tell me why you ran away, because I suspect it’s painful to talk about and you wouldn’t have done so without a reason, but might I ask how you ended up with the bracelet?”

“Nicholas was my swordsmanship instructor for years,” Enjolras says, the first name sounding odd on his tongue. “So I went to steal two of the swords from his rooms, but I saw a box with a gun in it. Then the door opened and I just took the whole box and got out. I didn’t realize the bracelet was inside. I wouldn’t have taken it on purpose. Despite everything, I wouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all right,” she says. “I’m shocked he kept it, but perhaps it speaks to some affection he still holds. I can hope that, at least.”

“Will you look for him?” Combeferre asks, gentle. “In Jamaica?”

“I’m not certain,” she answers, honest. “He has a life, and I’m not sure he’d be pleased to see me. But I don’t…I don’t truly know if I could do anything else.”

 _He might also have cause to arrest me_ , is what she doesn’t say, but Enjolras knows she means.

“You’re his mother,” Courfeyrac says, empathy brimming in his voice, and Enjolras remembers his numerous attempts to try and win his own mother’s attention. “Surely…”

“It’s as you said,” Tiena answers, offering a melancholy smile. “He’s ashamed.”

“He shouldn’t be,” Enjolras says before he can think, a bite of his own anger at Javert in his voice.

“No he shouldn’t be,” she replies, a spark of fondness in her eyes. “But I suspect you know better than most that people often hold up things they should not.” She looks at him again, tilting her head. “That passion of yours is going to land you in the fire one day, lad.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, looking over as Combeferre chuckles at his response.

“My father used to tease him about that,” Combeferre says, a grin on his face. “If only he’d gotten the chance to know Auden and he’d really have seen the trouble.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, reaching over and swatting Combeferre’s arm like a cat. “Because you are such a rule follower yourself.”

“I never said that,” Combeferre argues, reaching down and cleaning his spectacles on his shirt. “I am simply more subtle, is all. Well. Usually.”

“We’ll see about that,” Enjolras says, quirking one eyebrow.

Tiena laughs, lightening the mood a bit, and this is one way she does differ from her son; Javert’s laugh always sounded unnatural as if he didn’t think he was allowed joy, or as if he feared it. Tiena’s is quiet but genuine, her smile much less wolfish in nature. Javert, he considers, seemed to know better how to smile at first. But as the years passed, he forgot.

“Well I’m afraid I must get to the market,” she says. “But if you promise not to steal from me, not that there is much to steal, I might agree to let you take a rest here. My bed isn’t large, but it’s more sufficient than a beach, I imagine.”

“We won’t steal anything,” Enjolras promises. “Thank you. We could not be more grateful.”

“I know what it is to be desperate,” Tiena answers. “Wait for me here and I’ll send you on your way with some food, all right? I’ll just be gone a few hours.”

They agree, and after a few minutes she’s gone again, still holding her son’s bracelet in her hands. The three of them pile in her bed, and Enjolras thinks that it’s been months since he’s laid in one. They’d long ago run out of money for inn rooms, and as lowly cabin boys they’d only gotten hammocks on the ships where they’d found work. He feels his eyes close heavily, and with Combeferre and Courfeyrac warm on either side of him, for the first time in ages, he feels safe.

Later that night as they strategically pack the bread and fruit Tiena offered them into their three knapsacks, she beckons Enjolras over.

“Thank you,” he says. “For all your help.”

“Life is a funny thing, isn’t it?” she asks. “Would you mind giving me the information about where Nicholas is? I am uncertain at best how to approach it, but I’d like to have all the details, if I could.”

“Of course,” Enjolras answers. “He should be the Quartermaster under Captain Michel Enjolras in Port Royal, Jamaica. The ship’s name is the Navigator.”

“Thank you,” she says, writing the information down. “And if I see him I won’t tell him where you are or that I saw you at all, you have my word. I’m sure you have solid reasons for running away.”

Enjolras nods, hesitating for a moment, but ploughing ahead with his concerns. “It isn’t my business to tell you what to do, but I…I wouldn’t put it past him to arrest you if he knows you’ve been participating in piracy. He was like a strange sort of older brother to me, and when I started behaving in a way of which he didn’t approve, it all became messy. It wasn’t the same.”

“I appreciate that,” she says, pulling something out of her pocket. “The return of the bracelet means a great deal to me. Until today, this was all I had left.” She unfolds the piece of paper, which is crumbled at the edges, revealing a pencil sketch of what must be a young Javert, perhaps ten or so. “A small thing a friend of ours drew long ago,” she continues.

Enjolras looks at it for a few moments, noticing the same expression he knew growing up, perpetually stern, but a hint of an amused, dry smile on his lips against his better judgement. His hair hangs to just above his shoulders, his face angular and awkward, a far cry from the intimidating figure Enjolras thinks of now.

“I first met him when I asked him to play swords with me,” Enjolras says, the words slipping out almost without his permission. “I’m not sure he knew what to make of that.”

She studies him for a moment, breaking the gaze as Combeferre and Courfeyrac approach, handing Enjolras his knapsack.

“You three take care of yourselves,” she says, smiling again. “And you can come visit me, if you’d like. If you decide to stay on Nassau.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both offer their thanks as well, and with a final farewell they walk out the door, the afternoon sun sitting low in the sky.

“The world is bizarrely small sometimes,” Combeferre says “I never would have even thought we’d run into Javert’s mother, of all people. Is she going to look for him?”

“I think so,” Enjolras answers. “I gave her the information to locate him, and she promised she wouldn’t mention us.”

“I suspect she’s good at keeping secrets,” Courfeyrac says. “If her son is any indication. Now, where to? We may have a bit of food now but there’s still the problem of no money. And we are, after all, on a pirate island.”

“I say we go look around, see if there are any ships looking for new recruits,” Enjolras says. “Perhaps one that’s a bit more long-term than before.” He smiles for a moment, remembering Combeferre’s surprise when he’d first mentioned speaking to pirates at the docks, though now when he looks at his friend, he sees a grin slipping onto his features.

“Well,” Combeferre says, fond. “I suppose now is the time to tell that you always did make a better pirate than a naval officer when we played our games with Javert.”

Enjolras tries not to smile, but finds he cannot help it. Courfeyrac comes in between them, linking his arms through theirs.

“Well then,” he says, and Enjolras finds that the familiar twinkle in his eyes gives him confidence. “Let’s go see if these pirates live up to the stories we’ve heard, shall we?”

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, the Bahamas. 1706.**

Whenever they dock and come to Nassau, Feuilly finds he misses the sea. He misses the quiet, the waves lulling him to sleep, the way the sky melts into the sea on the darkest nights when the moon is but a sliver and the stars hide behind the clouds. He also misses the light flooding onto the deck in stripes when the moon is full and the stars shine bright, leading the way. He misses the sun rising up over the water, painting it with streaks of color against the varying shades of blue. But he knows they must dock sometimes, and as much as the din never seems to die down in Nassau, it’s also a blessing; it’s a pirate stronghold that no navy or East India have found the courage to come near, and it makes it easier to stay out of danger of arrest. Though much as they want to catch his Uncle Jean, Feuilly also thinks that perhaps they fear him a bit too much to try very often. His uncle owns a house near the back of the island; they’d found it abandoned when the English abandoned the island and fixed it up, so Nassau now served as a de facto home for them when they weren’t at sea, as it did for a growing number of pirates and wayward privateers.

All things considered though, this tavern is at least interesting, and Feuilly watches the people in around him with interest. He’d brought a book to read, as sometimes he can shut out the noise while delving into a new subject, but he finds he’s a bit too tired to focus on it at present even though he treasures books, which are difficult to come by. Uncle Jean and Fantine sit near speaking to some people, and Cosette sits next to him, swinging her feet back and forth from where she sits on her stool, watching people along with him. At nearly fourteen she’s grown a great deal over the past couple of years, but the stools in these taverns are usually built for fully grown men.

Feuilly’s drawn from his musings as a loud voice reverberates from the corner of the room, breaking through the din for a moment, and Feuilly searches for the source. Then out of the corner of his eye, Feuilly sees them. There are three boys probably just a couple of years his juniors, he guesses, likely about sixteen; two of them are white, one with blonde hair and one with brown, and third boy wearing spectacles, Feuilly speculates, is mixed race like him with black curls and brown skin. Somehow they have managed to anger the single most surly, angry pirate currently in the tavern.

“Uh oh,” Cosette says, her eyes following his own, her finger twisting one of her curls anxiously. She pokes his arm. “They’re about to be in trouble, that’s Ackland they’re tangling with.” She gets up as if to aid them, and though Feuilly smiles at her courage, he puts a hand on her arm.

“I think we should let Uncle Jean or your mother handle this,” Feuilly says, about to turn toward his uncle when the man’s voice rings through the room.

“You stole from me!” He reaches out, seizing the edge of the boy with curly brown hair’s ripped jacket.

“We did _not_ steal from you!” the blonde one says in response, and pries the man’s hands off his friend. “And don’t touch him.”

Now the man grabs the blonde one’s forearm instead, and Feuilly notices him flinch, but he stares the man in eyes nevertheless, his glare a mix of ice and fire.

“Hey!” the bespectacled boy shouts. “Let him go!”

“Uncle Jean,” Feuilly says, turning around and tugging on the back of his uncle’s long coat, drawing his attention as well as Fantine’s. “Those boys…”

“Oh lord,” Fantine says, looking sympathetic as she runs her fingers through her hair. “They stumbled across the path of the worst man in here. Bad luck.”

Uncle Jean grasps his arm in thanks before rising from his stool and striding purposefully over to the conflict.

“Papa will take care of it,” Cosette says, noticing Feuilly’s worry. “They’ll be okay. You know how Ackland is.”

Feuilly nods, and she clasps his hand, offering him the smile of a younger sister he’s grown so fond of. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so concerned for these strangers, only that he is. They’re very thin, he notices, their clothes ripped and dirty, and they have that look about them that Feuilly is all too familiar with: frightened but trying desperately hiding it. They are, however, fierce in their protection of each other. He recognizes the desperation they wear, the tired, angry glint in their eyes, the bags under them, the clenched fists, the strength and determination holding them together. There is something kindred about them, even if Feuilly knows it’s not quite rational.

“Ackland,” he hears Uncle Jean says in a commanding tone, the eyes of almost the entire tavern on them now as the usual ruckus quiets. His uncle is well-liked and well-respected among the pirates, and they rarely have quarrels with others on Nassau, save, Feuilly notes, for the man causing the trouble. There are plenty of inter-pirate squabbles, but Valjean usually manages to stand above them. “These boys have done nothing to wrong you. Let go of him.”

“Fauchelevent the Benevolent,” Ackland spits, holding tighter to the blond boy’s forearm. “Come to save the day again?”

 “I promise you,” Valjean says, and Feuilly recognizes the seldom heard slice of danger in his uncle’s voice. “If you do not let these boys go, I will not be so benevolent.”

“Your threats don’t frighten me,” Ackland responds. “Perhaps it will teach you a lesson.”

“A lesson in what, exactly?” Valjean asks, retaining his usual calm. “That your needless bloodshed is the right tactic? There’s blood on all of our hands, sometimes, Ackland. And on the hands of the society we stand against. But you seem to do it for sport, and no matter what you say, you’re in the minority. The pirates on this island don’t kill or torture their captives and once they have what they need from the ships they let them go. You’ve decided to go a different way, it seems.”

“Always talking about helping others,” Ackland argues. “Well I’m not here for your precious ideals.”

“Well then you won’t last long here will you?” Valjean says, and Feuilly sees him make use of his height over Ackland, who starts cowering. “We’re trying to be better than those in power, not worse. Don’t smear our reputations with your greed and your bloodlust.”

“The fact remains that these boys stole from me,” Ackland says, diverting course from the argument. “What are you going to do about _that_ , Fauchelevent? If you’re so egalitarian.”

 “No we _didn’t_ ,” the one with the curly brown hair says, exasperated. “You must have dropped your money, because we wouldn’t be foolish enough to steal from someone in the middle of a crowded tavern with no escape.”

The blond boy tries pulling away again, and when Ackland won’t let go, Feuilly watches his uncle seize his chance. Valjean pushes at Ackland’s chest knocking him away from the boy. Ackland makes toward Valjean, but at the look in Valjean’s eyes he backs away again, unsurprisingly more bluster than actual bravery.

“Watch your back, Fauchelevent,” Ackland says, pushing his hat further down on his head and stomping out the door, leaving stunned but grateful expressions on the three boys’ faces.

Feuilly watches his uncle smile at the trio, and he whispers something to them that Feuilly cannot hear before they start walking back toward them.

“Don’t look now,” Fantine says, grumbling, but Feuilly sees the smile flickering at her lips. “But I suspect we might be taking in a few strays tonight.”

“You like it,” Feuilly says, elbowing her lightly in the side. “You were, to my surprise, thrilled to take me in when I accidentally stumbled across you and Uncle Jean.”

“He’s right Mama,” Cosette says, kissing her mother’s cheek, eyes bright with teasing.

“Oh,” Fantine says, shaking her head, but she’s chuckling. “Don’t tease me.”

“Thank you for helping us,” the blond boy says as they approach with Valjean. “We should probably go, we don’t want to cause any more trouble.”

“You weren’t causing the trouble,” Valjean says, and Feuilly notices him studying the boy as he if knows him somehow. “Tell me,” he says slowly. “Are the three of you new in Nassau?”

“We just arrived yesterday,” the bespectacled boy answers, and Feuilly notices him looking at Fantine, eyes squinting as if she seems familiar. She looks back, and Feuilly sees her eyes widen in surprise, though her words don’t match just yet.

“I’m Fantine,” she says. “And this is Jean Fauchelevent,” she says gesturing to Valjean. “And my daughter Cosette and Fauchelevent’s nephew Jahni.”

“ _The_ Fauchelevent?” the boy with curly brown hair asks, admiration shining in his eyes. “Really? I heard that man say your name.”

Feuilly watches the blond boy rest his gaze on Fauchelevent, something like respect and intrigue in his eyes, relaxing his stance an inch or two and exchanging a look with the bespectacled boy.

“Really,” Fantine says, amused. “And you are?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, her voice going up just a bit higher, and Feuilly recognizes it as a sure sign she knows just who they are.

“I’m Michael,” the blond boy says, far too quickly. “And my friends are James and Stephen. Our fathers were privateers killed in a ship wreck, so we ended up on our own and came here. We’d heard black and white men could sail together equally under pirate flags.”

“Uh huh,” Fantine says, not convinced. “And I’m certain only the last part of that story is true. How about we go outside away from the noise and talk?”

Feuilly watches anxiety spark in all of their eyes, shoulders tensing again as they unconsciously move closer to each other.

“I mean you no harm,” Fantine says, softening her voice. “I promise.”

The seven of them walk out, finding a spot among some palm trees a hundred yards or so away from the tavern where the crowds won’t hear them.

“You’re Chantal’s son,” Fantine says without preamble, looking at the bespectacled boy. “Frantz Combeferre. Do you remember me?”

The boy called Frantz nods. “Yes. You were my mother’s friend, Fantine. I…we’d all heard of a Fantine sailing with Fauchelevent, but I wasn’t sure if it was you.”

“How did you end up here?” she asks. “What happened to your mother?”

“I don’t know,” Combeferre answers, eyes mired in sadness at the mention of his mother. “She was coming to visit me in Jamaica after I went to live with my father and never showed up. My father, he couldn’t find her, and he looked all over. I’m afraid what happened to you happened to her, that she might have been sold into slavery.”

At this Fantine reaches out, tentative, looking for permission before grasping Combeferre’s wrist gently, and his own fingers wrap carefully around hers, a slight smile pulling at his lips. “And your father died, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Combeferre answers, his voice nearly a whisper, but there’s trust within it. “He was killed in a storm.”

“How do you know he died?” Feuilly hears the blond boy say, tension in his tone as if he senses some danger, though he’s still polite.

“Because,” Fantine says, turning to him, but clearly sensing he doesn’t want to be touched. “We know who you are as well. We stole from your father’s ship one night and I saw a note in the log about renaming the ship. You’re Michel Enjolras’ son. René.”

“I…” Enjolras tries, but he falls silent when he realizes there’s nothing for it. “How did you know?”

“I’m afraid you aren’t inconspicuous lad,” Valjean says. “And your father did a thorough job of plastering those flyers everywhere. I’m surprised you haven’t been found already. You must have been extremely careful.”

“We were,”Enjolras answers. “It was a close call several times.”

“You also look rather a lot like your mother,” Fantine says, and Feuilly puts the pieces together in his head; this is the son of the woman who’d helped his uncle and Fantine escape from Port Royal in the first place, the night they’d broken free from the East India ship. He’d certainly heard the story, though he’d never expected this.

“My mother?” Enjolras asks, confused. “Wait…how do you know my mother?”

“It’s a story for a time other than standing in a grove of palm trees in the dark,” Fantine says, kind. “But she helped Fauchelevent and I a great deal once. Though I suppose if you knew Javert, you know Fauchlelevent's real name is Valjean. We realized Javert was working for your father that night we saw the ship's log a few years after we escaped from his ship. We ended up in Port Royal twice, though only once by choice.”

“She helped you escape from Javert, didn’t she?” Enjolras asks, and Feuilly laughs quietly at the surprised expressions on his uncle’s and Fantine’s faces. “I knew that two people escaped from him, though it was few years before I knew who, exactly.”

“Sharp lad,” Valjean says. “But yes, she did.”

“I knew it,” Enjolras breathes. “She always got a strange expression on her face when that was brought up. I thought I was imagining things, but I suppose I wasn’t.”

“You’re the other boy from the missing flyers,” Fantine says, turning to the curly haired boy. “Courfeyrac. Your father is a privateer.”

“You would be correct, Madam,” Courfeyrac says in reply, sweeping his hat off his head.

“Charmed,” Fantine says, laughing now.

“They should stay with us!” Cosette exclaims, clasping her hands together in excitement. “We’ve got room.”

“Well if they’d like to,” Fantine says, tugging on one of her daughter’s curls. “Would you like to? If you just arrived I’m sure you could use somewhere to sleep.”

“On your ship?” Enjolras asks, one hand reaching across and curling over his other elbow.

“I’ve a small house on the island,” Valjean answers. “A small place for us to stay on land when we dock here. And you need to get that cough looked at.”

There’s a pause as the three boys look at each other, silently communicating in the way Feuilly often sees Valjean and Fantine do, and Cosette pokes him in the shoulder, excited at the prospect of new friends. Feuilly watches them, seeing them look unsure and untrusting, and he certainly understands.

“It’s much more comfortable than sleeping on a beach,” he offers, meeting Enjolras’ gaze and seeing his eyes light up a little, that kindred feeling Feuilly felt earlier shared between them.

Enjolras looks for agreement from Combeferre and Courfeyrac one last time, then nods.

“We could do that,” he says. “For a night, at least. Thank you. Twice over.” He pauses, looking again at Valjean. “Javert told my father he suspected it was you who stole from the ship that night you saw the log,” he continues, that respect and intrigue in his eyes again. “He was right. He was also right about you really being Valjean.”

“So he was,” Valjean says. “Javert is uncanny with his hunches, in my experience.”

“You’re not going to ask us why we ran away?” Combeferre asks, tilting his head as he too, looks at Valjean.

“I think we’ve had rather a lot to be going on with for one night,” Valjean answers, and Feuilly remembers his own journey of learning to trust Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette. Part of him wanted to do so immediately, but his experiences dictated that he needed time. He suspected this was much the same. “We can revisit it again in the morning, if you’re amenable.”

“Helping us will paint a target on your back,” Enjolras says. “My father and Javert…well Javert’s not just a young sailor anymore and he’s been desperate for years to catch you. He and my father are powerful.”

“I already have a target on my back, lad,” Valjean says, holding up a hand, but there’s a gentle grin on his lips. “I don’t mind a few more.”

“Besides,” Fantine says. “We’re already bonded together by people in common, aren’t we? I knew one a good while and one for only a night, but both your mothers mean a great deal to me,” she continues, looking at Enjolras and Combeferre. “I would be doing them an injustice if I didn’t do whatever I could to help all three of you. Give us a night, at least.”

Feuilly watches the trio’s stance relax once again, and his uncle takes the moment to his advantage.

“Jahni, son,” he says, and even after several years Feuilly finds he never tires of the endearment. “Could you take them back to the house? And Cosette as well. Fantine and I need to talk for a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Feuilly says, and Valjean rests an affectionate hand on his face for a moment.

Cosette kisses both Valjean’s and Fantine’s cheeks then ushers all of them forward in enthusiasm, looping her arm through Feuilly’s.

“We must get you some new boots, while you’re here,” Cosette says, frowning as she looks down at the state of the trio’s shoes. “Those won’t do.”

“We haven’t any more money, I’m afraid,” Enjolras answers, but his eyes crinkle with mirth as he looks at Cosette, whose joy, Feuilly has learned, is contagious. “We were hoping to find some work.”’

“Mama and Papa will insist on it,” Cosette says. “The boots, I mean.”

“She’s right,” Feuilly says. “I tried to fend them off and usually found new things waiting for me outside my door in the morning.”

“You are undoubtedly some of the kindest people we’ve run into in the past year and a half,” Combeferre says, intrigued by this sudden development. “We did a great deal of jumping from ship to ship because of the cruelty of others. We even had all of our money stolen on a merchant ship.”

“It’s what they do,” Feuilly says, toying with the end of one of his dreadlocks that Fantine says create a striking similarity with his uncle, though Feuilly’s face is clean shaven, unlike Valjean’s. He’s scarcely so open with people he doesn’t know well, but something about these three pushes him forward. “I know what it’s like to be on your own out there, but you can trust that for any time you’re with Valjean and Fantine, you’ll be safe. There was a time I hadn’t thought that possible, but I do now. It’s not an easy life, but it’s one I wouldn’t trade.”

“He’s right,” Cosette says, and Feuilly hears the gravity in her tone reflecting their shared experience in slavery and being torn from their families in different ways only to find shelter with the same two people, forming an unconventional family. “You’re safe with us.”

Feuilly looks up at the trio, the tentative trust in their faces throwing into relief the marks of their hardships; the thin faces, the exhaustion, the anxiety. He feels those same memories in his bones. But whatever had driven them here, the result was the same; they needed somewhere to go and people to trust, and Feuilly, for one, was glad they’d stumbled across their path in some strange twist of fate. And as they smile at him in return, Feuilly feels the first bud of friendship bloom in his heart.

 

 


	11. Book II (Coming Together): Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosette awakes early the morning after the Trio arrives, finding herself very fond of the three young men. Valjean and Fantine offer Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac the chance to join their crew, and when the three accept, the found family sailing on the Misericorde grows larger. Enjolras finds a new mentor in Valjean, a man whose morals he finds a home in, a far distance from his father and Javert. A year later Valjean and Fantine make good on their promise to find Combeferre's mother Chantal, boarding an East India ship and discovering her below. A month later, Javert finds the first piece of a trail he will follow for years to come. Featuring lots of Cosette and Feuilly being found siblings, lots of Fantine being awesome, and pirating!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the next chapter! Sorry it was a bit of a slow update, the holidays were a bit hectic. Thank you to everyone who has commented or given kudos or messaged me, all of your feedback is so very appreciated!

**Book II (Coming Together): Part 2**

**Nassau, the Bahamas. February 1706.**

Cosette wakes up as soon as the sun filters in through her window the next morning. She sits up, stretching her arms over her head, thinking of the events of the night previous. Even when they’re off the ship she doesn’t sleep late, and today is no exception. She doesn’t mind being on land from time to time, especially now that Nassau belongs to pirates; it makes it feel like a home apart from the ship. She suspects she can’t sleep because she always feels strange in such a large space. The quarters she shares with her mother on board are small, and this house her papa renovated when the English abandoned Nassau once belonged to a wealthier merchant, so there are several rooms. It’s far more space than she’s ever been accustomed to, and sometimes it feels oddly unsettling. She gets out of bed, padding across the wooden floors, which are warm under her feet from the patches of sun. She heads down the hallway, smiling when she sees her mother’s door cracked slightly open, Fantine asleep directly in the middle of the bed with one arm resting above her head.

She keeps going, finding herself standing in front of the small spare bedroom where Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac have piled into the bed, curled up tight as is poised for defending against an attack but unafraid of sleeping shoulder to shoulder nevertheless. Something in her heart matches theirs, perhaps not the same thing exactly, but a variation. She feels an overwhelming need to make them safe as her parents made her safe, as they’d made Jahni safe. She remembers one night not long after her mother and Papa Valjean rescued her from the Thenardiers, and she awoke again from nightmares, her mother telling her stories of her friend Chantal and of Astra Enjolras, who helped them escape, and earlier stories of Myriel.

 _There are good people in this world my darling_ , Fantine said one night when Cosette awoke crying from dark dreams, love rushing through her voice. _And they’re doing their best to make it better. Some might say women are weaker than the men, but I’ve seen all evidence to the contrary. Just look at us. They try to tell us our ancestry is lesser, but they couldn’t be more wrong. We bleed strength, don’t we?_

"Cosette?" She hears Feuilly’s voice, pulling her out of her memories.

Cosette turns around at the sound, meeting his small, curious smile.

"What are you doing?" he asks, standing behind her.

"I was just watching them," Cosette says. "They look like they haven't slept well in so long. And I was thinking I know that feeling. Some of my memories of the Thenardiers aren't clear because I was so little, but some of them are, and I remember the nightmares I had. Even the ones I had once Mama and Papa and Captain Myriel got me out of there. I just...they've been hurt. I have a sense for it, I think."

Feuilly’s smile grows wider, and Cosette smiles back.

"Do you think they'll tell us what happened?" she asks.

"I'm not sure," Feuilly answers, and Cosette remembers the slow-process of getting to know him. Feuilly's always been warm and generous, but his feeling safe enough to express it fully was something else. "We've probably get to give them time. If they even stay."

"Mama and Papa were talking about seeing if they wanted to join the crew," Cosette says. "I was listening last night when they returned."

"Cosette," Feuilly chides.

"What?" she asks, grinning. "I’ll be fourteen next week, I’m old enough to know the goings on. They think they're safer with us, but they worry some of the crew will be wary of taking in people connected to East India."

“Likely they’re afraid it will draw the people looking for them toward us, if they find out,” Feuilly says, looking up and contemplating the three still sleeping figures. “I don’t know that I believe in fate, but they crossed our path and really, we were all connected already. Besides, it’s not as if the Royal Navy and East India aren’t normally after Uncle Jean and Fantine anyway. I’d like having some more people around our age about. And if they’ve managed a year and a half on the run around here, my guess is they know something about sailing. I’m sure we could teach them about pirating.”

Feuilly’s eyes twinkle and Cosette laughs.

“Papa said he thought if we took them in he was certain Captain Enjolras and that Javert fellow would find us one day,” Cosette continues. “But that he was willing to risk that. Mama said she thought he was worrying too much.”

“Sounds about normal for them,” Feuilly responds. “Uncle Jean worrying and looking around corners and your mother bidding him to relax. They’re both right, in a way. They probably _will_ find us. But there’s not much we can do about it other than stay vigilant, and it is worth it.”

“Papa seemed particularly concerned about keeping their true identities hidden from Javert for as long as possible. Said Javert catches onto things too quickly,” Cosette says. “The three of him have heard of Papa,” she points out. “I knew word of him and Mama had spread, but it’s funny to see other people’s reactions.”

“Fauchelevent the Benevolent, The Pirates of Robin Hood,” Feuilly says, listing off the names they’ve seen in the papers. “I’m not surprised they know the stories, given where they came from. Given they knew Javert, especially.”

They perk up at the sound of a door opening down the hall, footsteps making the wood creak.

“That’s Papa,” Cosette says. “I’m going to go talk to him about them.”

“You think you need to persuade him? Feuilly asks, raising one eyebrow.

“I don’t think so,” Cosette says. “But I want to make certain. What are you going to do?”

“I might wait until they wake up and then take them to see the ship,” Feuilly says. “I think they’d like that.”

“All right,” Cosette says. “Well wish me luck.” She winks, and Feuilly laughs, the sound sending her off down the hallway toward Valjean’s small study where he’s no doubt looking at some of the ship’s books.

She knocks on the doorframe. “Papa?” she asks. “Can I come in?”

“Certainly,” Valjean says, looking up, the reading spectacles her mother pushed upon when she realized how much he squinted when reading resting on the bridge of his nose. “Something the matter?”

“No,” Cosette says, folding her hands behind her back as she walks around the room, feigning interest in the knick-knacks sitting around. “I was just wondering when we were due to set sail again?”

A half-smile slides onto Valjean’s face. “In two days’ time,” he says, slow. “Why?”

“Just curious,” she says, standing up on her tip-toes and coming back to rest again.

“Does this have anything to do with your eavesdropping on mine and your mother’s conversation last evening?” Valjean asks, his deep voice filled with amusement rather than irritation.

“How did you know I was there?” Cosette asks, tilting her head.

“I’ve learned to listen very closely to the sound of footsteps since I started doing those night missions stealing from ships at the docks,” Valjean answers. “I have to know if someone’s caught onto me.”

“Are you going to encourage them to stay with us?” Cosette blurts out, unable to contain it any longer.

“You are very invested,” Valjean says, and Cosette senses that he’s teasing her.

“I just think they should,” Cosette says. “I…well. They’ve obviously run away from their family, haven’t they?”

“And you think they need a new one?” Valjean asks, but when Cosette looks into his eyes again she sees the teasing dash away, replaced with concern and empathy.

She recalls the first time she saw him, remembers contemplating him from her mother’s arms, curious and feeling an almost immediate trust burgeon in her heart. She’d felt safe in his presence ever since, and as she offered him pieces of her childish soul he’d given back in return, revealing layers of himself to her as he had to her mother. She suspected him showing her his true smile was no small thing. She studies his face a moment, remembering the day she’d accidentally seen the scars on his back from the lash of a whip. She knows only the basics of his time in prison or working on the East India ship, and the same goes for his life before that, told mostly, she’s sure, with her mother’s encouragement. She knows more about his family by way of Feuilly, and the handful of stories Valjean himself told her about his sister, but she always hopes one day he’ll divulge more. Her mother knows more because she was there for pieces of the story, and sometimes shares with her, but wants Valjean to do most of it himself.

 _He doesn’t want to disappoint you with his past_ , she’s heard her mother say.

 _He couldn’t ever_ , Cosette always answers.

 _I know_ , Fantine always responds, kissing the top of her head. _I know._

“I think so,” she says, going over and taking his much larger hand in hers, feeling how rough the skin is from working on ships. “I…it’s just a sense I have. Jahni was saying he’s certain they know about sailing, and you were saying you needed more help on the ship, you…”

Valjean folds his fingers over her hand, quieting her.

“I was going to speak to them about it later today,” Valjean says, and Cosette feels her heart lift. “I suspect offering them work is the way to encourage them to stay. And perhaps to find out what happened.”

“You want them to stay?”

“I do,” Valjean answers. “And so does your mother. They aren’t just any runaways; they have some of the great powers of the region looking for them. I wish to lend my protection to them. I don’t know yet the specifics of why they ran away, but given that I know Javert, and have heard stories of Captain Enjolras and his father in law, well. I can fill in some of the gaps.”

“Do you think René’s mother is all right?” Cosette asks. “The one who helped you and Mama? And what about Frantz’s mother? He said she went missing.”

“I expect the answers about Astra Enjolras lie with her son,” Valjean says, and Cosette admires his patience. “As for Chantal, well. I’m hoping we can help find her as we found you.”

At this, Cosette throws her arms around Valjean’s neck and he pulls her close.

“I see you’re pleased with me?” he asks, and she hears the grin in his voice.

“Absolutely,” she says. “Will the crew be all right with it? Will you have to vote on it?”

“They’ve largely agreed to leave recruiting decisions up to your mother and I,” Valjean answers, pulling back and studying Cosette’s face. “And they more than most can appreciate not wanting their identities bandied about without care. I do, of course, plan on speaking to them of the basics, they have a right to know those things. There may be some concerns, but I doubt there will be too much dissent on this; in fact I think they’ll be eager to help anyone turning against the powerful in East India’s rank the more I think upon it.”

They both turn at the sound of a knock on the door, finding Fantine leaning in the doorway, yawning.

“And just what are the two of you grinning about?” she asks. “I feel like it spells trouble.”

“Ah, I fear you are mixing me up with yourself,” Valjean responds. “I was just telling Cosette that we were planning to offer positions on the crew to our three runaways.”

“Ah,” Fantine says, looking over at Cosette. “Couldn’t even wait for me to wake up, could you?”

“I woke with the sun,” Cosette answers, wrapping her arms around her mother’s waist and leaning her head on her shoulder. “Besides, I didn’t sleep well for thinking of them.”

“You are a kind soul, my darling,” Fantine says, kissing the side of her daughter’s head.

“And just where did I learn that from?” Cosette teases.

“Mmmm,” Fantine says, non-committal, but she’s smiling. “Where’s Jahni gotten to?”

“He said he was going to wait for René, Frantz, and Auden to wake up and then he was going to show them the ship,” Cosette answers. “I heard the door open and shut just a few moments ago.”

“Just in time for us to go speak to the crew,” Fantine says. “I sent word for them to gather at downstairs in about a half-hour.”

“Excellent,” Valjean says. “That way I can speak to the boys earlier.”

“Do you think they’ll accept?” Fantine asks. “I’m not beyond trying to convince them. I think they need to stay. The thought of letting Astra or Chantal’s son go off without my help seems wrong, and Auden has already charmed me. I suspect he does that rather a lot.”

“I think if I phrase it correctly, yes,” Valjean replies. “I think they want to join us, but it’s difficult for them to trust. So if I offer it as work on the ship rather than as an offer of protection, yes.”

“I think I’ll go join them on the ship,” Cosette says. “You’ll come meet us?”

“We will,” Valjean says. “You go. I’m sure they’ll warm to you more quickly than anyone.”

Cosette presses Valjean’s hand, kisses her mother, and seizing her hat from the table downstairs and plunking it down on her head, she marches off toward the docks.

* * *

“This ship is incredible,” Combeferre says, eyes trailing over every inch of the Misericorde as they walk around the deck. “It’s so well-maintained; I can tell just from first glance.”

“The boatswain would be pleased to hear you say so,” Feuilly answers, and Combeferre finds he likes him more and more with each passing moment. There are things in common, Combeferre thinks. “Andrews is very particular,” Feuilly continues. “One of the best on Nassau, along with the rest of the deck crew. I’ve learned more about rigging and tying knots and the specifics of hull maintenance and ship maintenance in general than I have from anyone.”

“You shall have to teach me about the knots,” Courfeyrac says, eager, and Combeferre thinks that he’s surely in his element here. “I was always trying to learn them when I sailed with my father, but they gave me a devil of a time. Probably because the boatswain on his ship didn’t care for me?”

“Why not?” Feuilly asks.

“Thought I got underfoot, I believe,” Courfeyrac answers. “That, and I think there was some squabble between him and my father, something about him being passed over for the captaincy.”

“Another reason the system here seems better,” Combeferre says. “Among many others, of course. Correct me if I’m wrong, Feuilly?”

“Well don’t mistake me, there _are_ squabbles, but more among warring pirates with opposing views and clashing egos than intership issues. You’ll certainly see the bickering if you stay,” Feuilly answers. “But as far as individual ships, it helps that captains, and often quartermasters, are chosen by vote. Sailors might be resent not being voted in, but at least if the captain fails his sailors he can be removed from his post. It’s democratic.”

“I imagine that prevents mutiny?” Enjolras asks, and Combeferre is almost surprised at the sound of his voice; his friend was so busy studying the ship that he’d fallen quiet.

“It does,” Feuilly says. “No need for it really, when captains can be voted out. It’s not unheard of, but it’s rare.”

“And there are…pirate codes?” Enjolras asks, enthusiasm in his voice.

“You’ve been doing some investigating,” Feuilly responds with a chuckle.

“Well,” Enjolras says, smiling wryly. “The three of us, we were often attempting to discern fact from fiction when it came to piracy. And to your uncle.”

“We read the papers sometimes to see what they say, when we can get them,” Feuilly says. “Though usually they tell their own story, as opposed to the truth. Use pirates to frighten townsfolk into obedience to them. Though ordinary people often come up with folk tales about pirates that are usually much better. If a bit…mythic. All depends where the particular people stand.”

The four of them laugh, and Combeferre runs his fingers across the wheel as they approach it, memories of his father stirring within, though Arthur is never far from his thoughts.

 _Latitude we can measure, longitude is much trickier,_ he hears his father say, hands gripping the wheel as Combeferre stood by, watching on in earnest. _But I’ll teach you about navigation, my boy. You have a knack for it._ He remembers his father’s eyes, deep brown and kind, the very ones he sees in his own reflection. He knows he mostly resembles his mother, but the eyes are his father’s. He’s heard that all his life.

If only, he thinks, his father could have lived and navigated them through their troubles as he had ships at sea. He thinks of Michel Enjolras, even if he wishes he wouldn’t. He thinks of all his father’s lessons on celestial navigation, on steering, on the different positions of the rudder as they sailed. He thinks that much like Captain Enjolras lost his ship’s navigator the day Arthur died, he also lost the navigator he needed in life. Things hadn’t been simple for some time, but when his father died, the rest of it went completely off course.

“What’s in the pirate codes, exactly?” Combeferre asks, noticing Feuilly’s eyes on him, but comfortable enough with this new friend that he doesn’t pull his fingers away from the wheel.

“They vary from ship to ship,” Feuilly answers. “They aren’t universal, though a lot of things overlap. They contain things like the amount of compensation for lost limbs and injuries, protecting against thievery among the sailors, the shares the sailors get, that sort of thing.”

“How do the shares work?” Enjolras asks, and Feuilly smiles at the enthusiasm. “My father he…well…if I can say anything I can say that he was a good captain to his men, but none of them made even close to what he did. I know most of the naval sailors, whatever the country, are similar. But you can tell just by a simple glance how much harder they have it.”

“It varies a bit ship to ship, but the captain and quartermaster on our ship usually each get two or three shares depending on the amount and what we find, the other officers one and a half, and everyone else one,” Feuilly answers. “Uncle Jean and Fantine take either one or half of their extra shares each and give it away.”

“That’s where the clothes and other stolen good left on doorsteps comes from?” Courfeyrac asks, and Combeferre remembers him giving some of the money he won gambling to needy children on the streets of Port Royal, winning money off the rash sons of wealthy families like his own.

“Like that,” Feuilly says with a nod. “Injury payments vary, depending on severity. If we get a good haul some of the sailors will give parts of their shares away, like if we encounter East India, or something of the nature.”

The four of them look up at the sound of steps coming toward them, a joyful voice calling out.

“Jahni!” Cosette says, approaching with a happy light in her eyes that Combeferre warms to in an instant. His memories of Fantine he holds from his boyhood are jostled and faded due to age and time, but he remembers that same look in her eyes, remembers her friendship with his mother, and he aches for her again, hoping that maybe here, maybe with these people, there’s a path to her, if she’s alive.

He _wants_ to trust them. He senses the same from Enjolras and Courfeyrac, the hope in their hearts and the hesitation in their minds.

“Hello,” Feuilly says, tugging on the edge of Cosette’s hat with affection. “I thought you might come find us here.”

“Are you showing them the ship?” Cosette asks. “She’s beautiful isn’t she?”

“She is,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. “You must have learned so much, sailing on this ship.”

“I have!” Cosette exclaims. “I actually like going up to the crow’s nest to help lookout, but Mama and Papa aren’t particularly fond of that.”

“They’re just afraid you’ll fall,” Feuilly says, and Cosette flicks him on the arm.

“I’m an excellent climber,” Cosette protests. “But Jahni’s taught me all sorts of things about repairing the ship, Mama’s taught me all the parts of the ship and some battle commands, although Papa usually frowns at that, though he spars with me with small swords, so that argument falls flat, a bit.”

“Court swords?” Enjolras asks, turning toward Cosette with interest in his eyes.

“Yes, actually,” Cosette answers, eager.

“That’s how I learned, when I first started with real swords,” Enjolras answers. “I’d just started using rapiers before we left Port Royal. Though I haven’t used a cutlass, yet.”

“If you’ve trained with a small sword and a rapier you’ll easily adapt to a cutlass,” Feuilly says. “I learned fairly quickly from Uncle Jean. They’re good in close quarters because they’re smaller, so lighter generally. Definitely less unwieldy than a rapier.”

 “Mama prefers daggers herself,” Cosette says. “Though I like swords too. But she taught me to parry attacks with a small knife in case I was ever attacked when I was alone.”

“Ah well,” Courfeyrac says, intrigue in his expression. “If we stay around the island perhaps your mother can teach me a bit. What does she use?”

“A dirk, usually,” Cosette says. “A Scottish pirate we helped gave it to her.”

“A quality weapon for boarding ships,” Courfeyrac says. “And for use in hand to hand, but lighter than a sword. Your mother is an intelligent woman.”

“She is!” Cosette says. “But you should stay, I know she’d teach you,” she continues, and Combeferre sees unrestrained excitement in her face, though Feuilly elbows her lightly in the side, though he’s grinning too. Combeferre shares a look with Enjolras and Courfeyrac; he suspects they’ve been a topic of discussion.

“So you know a lot about swords?” Cosette asks, recovering the moment. “Where did you learn?”

“My father,” Enjolras answers, tension in his voice, though it’s directed at the memories he’s considering rather than the people in front of him. “But Javert was my tutor, under my father’s direction, for a long time. He taught me a lot of what I know.” He pauses, and Combeferre studies his friend a moment, watching his expression change from uncomfortable to willing as he looks over at him and Courfeyrac. “I’ve been sailing most of my life, like Auden and Frantz. But Frantz is near a master at navigation now, and Auden learns whole ships like the back of his hand.”

“René neglects to mention what an excellent sailor he is,” Courfeyrac says, clasping Enjolras’ shoulder. “A natural, and quick thinker. What he says about Frantz is certainly more than true, however; he’s more adept at charts and maps and all that sort of thing, than anyone I’ve yet seen.”

“ _And_ what I said about you,” Enjolras insists.

“Well, I know we’d be glad to have you about Nassau,” Feuilly says. “And even more so on board.”

Cosette raises her eyebrows at Feuilly now, a grin slipping onto her features, an inverse of the earlier moment.

“This definitely seems more like our sort of place rather than where we came from,” Combeferre says. “We’ve met more friendly faces here than anywhere else.”

“That is certainly true,” Enjolras responds, and Combeferre sees the admiration in his eyes as his gaze lands on Feuilly. “And we’ve learned so much from you just showing us this ship and telling us how things work. And the reality of it seems even better than the stories; you’re doing so much good here.”

Enjolras smiles wide, one of those genuine, unchecked smiles that inevitably lifts Combeferre’s heart. Feuilly smiles back, a small blush tinting his cheeks.

“We are trying our hardest,” Feuilly says. “There’s always more to be done. Cosette and I, and Fantine, we’ve all experienced slavery first hand. And my uncle, well. He might as well have, doing prison labor under East India.” He glances at Enjolras, looking slightly apologetic. “I don’t mean to…”

“No,” Enjolras says, holding up a hand. “It’s East India who should be apologizing. My father never had any prisoner labor on his ship, but I saw them, at the docks on other East India ships. Talked to them, if I could convince. East India’s sins are more than I like to think on, but then, I cannot really do anything _other_ than think on it.”

Enjolras looks over at Combeferre, and in their usual silent way, Combeferre knows what’s in his head.

“I fear my mother might have been captured by slave runners,” he says. “Those rings that capture free people and sell them into slavery. I remember that happening with your mother,” he says, gazing at Cosette, gentle with his words.

“To both of us,” she says, and he admires the courage in her eyes. “And to Jahni as well. It happens far more than people want to admit.”

“It does,” Combeferre answers, feeling his heart clench. “I was lucky that my father had the position to protect me from it, once I lived under his roof. But even then, well. I saw his fear. And in the interest of disclosure, part of the reason we left Port Royal was because we discovered René’s father transporting slaves.”

“And he’d brought you into his house,” Feuilly says, bitterness in his tone. “And then to see that. I can imagine how that might have felt, that betrayal.”

“He was my father’s dearest friend,” Combeferre says. “Said I was like his own. We went down to help the slaves we discovered and that made things spiral out of control even further, but I couldn’t regret it. I don’t think any of us could.”

“No,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre sees a variation of the embers burning in his eyes that he often sees in Enjolras. “We surely couldn’t.”

“My father wanted to splice up his personal relationships from his business,” Enjolras says, eyes darting out toward two approaching figures, voice low with indignation. “I told him it couldn’t work that way, when he was calling human beings cargo.”

They all fall silent as Valjean and Fantine approach, the gangplank creaking under their footsteps. .

“Good morning,” Fantine says. “I hope you all slept well?” she asks, directing her words to the three of them, and Combeferre finds himself at home in her smile.

“Much better than a beach,” Courfeyrac says in reply.

“Decidely so,” Valjean answers. “I was hoping I might talk to the three of you.”

They all look to him, and once they indicate they’re listening he continues.

“I know you said you were looking for some work, and as it happens I’m in need of some deck hands on my crew,” Valjean says. “I’m not sure it will live up to the tales you’ve heard, but I suspect you’ll like it. And knowing what I do of your backgrounds, well I suspect you’ve been on ships for most of your lives, so I’m confident that you’ll catch on to anything new quickly. What do you think?”

Beside Feuilly, Cosette folds her hands together, rocking back and forth onto the balls of her feet. Valjean’s smile gets lost in his beard, but Combeferre sees the skin around his eyes crinkle.

“I think Cosette wants you to stay,” Fantine remarks, chuckling.

Combeferre looks over at Enjolras and Courfeyrac, both of whom seem to share his feeling; this is the man and woman they’ve heard countless stories about, people who are already connected them in more ways than one, and now the chance to learn from them. To possiblyfind a new home. Perhaps trust doesn’t come easily, but he thinks he could find it in himself to build it for these people reaching out for them.

“We’d like that,” Enjolras answers once he ascertains Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s thoughts. “Though, I’m afraid we had the only weapons to our name stolen a long while ago.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll see to that,” Valjean says. “And to some boots. Those won’t last you.” His tone is such that Combeferre knows even Enjolras won’t protest, nipping any argument in the bud with such direct kindness that declining it would be disrespectful.

“See?” Cosette says, winking at them. “I told you.”

At this Valjean says he’d like to show them around the island and introduce them to the rest of the crew, but as he turns to walk with the rest, Combeferre feels Fantine catch his shoulder.

“I spoke to Valjean and the crew about your mother,” she says, and Combeferre feels something rise in his chest. “And they agreed they’d all like to help you find her. I’m sure that if we did, she could find a home here.”

“I…” Combeferre says, feeling tears prick his eyes. “Thank you. That would mean so much to me.”

“Valjean and I are in the business of reuniting children with their remaining family members,” Fantine says, beaming. “If Cosette and Jahni are any indication.” She slips her arm through his, and though still a bit awkward and gangly, he’s taller than she. “Let’s go, there’s a great deal to see!”

Combeferre smiles, exhaustion in his bones, but relief in his soul.

* * *

**4 Weeks Later. At Sea.**

The sun glints off the handle of Valjean’s cutlass and into his eyes, partially obscuring his vision as he spars with Feuilly on deck.

“You picked the better position, Jahni,” Valjean says as the cutlasses clang together. “The sun’s right in my line of sight. Strategic-minded as ever, aren’t you lad?”

“Or simply lucky,” Feuilly says, and the happy gleam in his eyes reminds Valjean strikingly of his sister. Though Valjean’s skin is darker, Fantine always says Feuilly’s resemblance to Valjean is uncanny. But Valjean finds more of Feuilly’s mother in him.

Valjean watches Feuilly’s always sharp, intelligent gaze drift over to Enjolras, who leans against the railing, eyes drifting from group to group; Cosette and Courfeyrac stand with Fantine as she them techniques with her dirk both looking on with interest, while Combeferre stands at the wheel with Asante the sailing master, pointing at something on a chart as Asante answers one of his litany of questions, his expression indicating he’s impressed with Combeferre’s knowledge.

“You know,” Feuilly says, lowering his voice. “René was saying he hasn’t learned to properly use a cutlass yet.”

“Oh?” Valjean says, parrying Feuilly’s attack. “I saw him sparring with Courfeyrac just the other day. Seemed a natural.”

“Well he’s used rapiers and small swords,” Feuilly clarifies. “I told him a cutlass should be an easy lesson.”

Feuilly raises his eyebrows, the intent of his words resting in his eyes. Valjean studies his nephew for a moment, a small, ever fond half-smile breaking out onto his face. Feuilly lowers his cutlass and Valjean places a casually affectionate hand on his shoulder before walking over to Enjolras, whose back faces him now as he looks out at the calm sea before them. Out of his normal habits with Feuilly, he reaches out, placing a light hand on Enjolras’ forearm to gain his attention.

“René…” he says simultaneously, but the moment Valjean’s hand touches his arm René jumps, pulling away from the contact.

Valjean looks at him a moment and René looks back, realizing himself. He shakes his head, pushing a stray blond strand behind his ear as he looks back up at Valjean, embarrassed.

“Sorry sir,” he says. “I was just surprised.”

“You can just call me Valjean, you know,” Valjean says. “Or Fauchelevent. Whichever you like better. And it’s all right, I should have warned that I was standing just behind you.”

Enjolras nods, a brightness in his eyes, though Valjean sees something worried in his expression as well. Something torn.

“Do you have an old injury on that arm?” Valjean asks. He doesn’t want to push the boy, but he also hopes a bit of prodding might open him up.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, not expecting the inquiry, and although the tone is guarded, he seems happy Valjean is talking with him, esteem resting in his gaze. “Well, my grandfather bruised it, once.”

“Once?” Valjean asks, kind.

“I…” Enjolras tries. “I’m not sure how to talk about it. But no, it wasn’t just once.”

Valjean watches as Enjolras reaches up and touches his nose, a memory Valjean can’t see flitting across his face, the contemplative expression growing dark.

“Do you mind talking about it with me?” Valjean asks, meeting Enjolras’ eyes.

Enjolras hesitates a moment, holding his gaze before his eyes move first to Cosette, then to Feuilly and back to Valjean. He breathes in, clenching and unclenching his fist.

“No,” he answers, deciding. “I don’t mind.”

Valjean studies the boy for a moment, seeing his mother reflected in his delicate facial features. But it’s the eyes, he thinks, that strike him most. They’re different shades, but the intensity, the passion, is the same.

“Did your father hit you?” Valjean asks, careful with his words.

“No,” Enjolras says. “But he didn’t stop my grandfather. At least not often. He was too afraid.” Enjolras looks down at the deck, moving his foot back and forth across the wood in a semi-circle. “Why do you want to know about this? Has my work suffered?”

“My lad, no,” Valjean says, and he sees Enjolras’ eyes widen slightly at the affectionate term. “In fact you have a very admirable focus, if the past few weeks are any indication. Very efficient. I simply would like to know you.”

Enjolras nods, looking up again from the deck.

“You like to know the people you sail with,” he says, phrasing it as a statement rather than a question.

“I do,” Valjean says. “We become a sort of family, in such close quarters.”

He does not say _I would like to protect you, all three of you._ Something in his heart draws him to the three young men as it had to Cosette and Fantine, and obviously to Jahni. Their determination, their resourcefulness, the love pouring out of every inch of them resounds within him.

“My father, he felt the same,” but there’s disdain in his voice at the mention of Michel. “Though, he didn’t push for better pay for his sailors, for the equality I see you practice. But he did take interest. Especially in well, Javert, actually.” He pauses, a shy smile flickering on his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to talk about this either. I know Javert took part in treating both you and Fantine terribly. In holding up a system that harms so many.”

“It seems he did some harm to you as well,” Valjean says, and he notices Enjolras’ hand linger over the hilt of the cutlass strapped to his belt. Javert taught him, Valjean had learned.

“It’s not the same,” Enjolras protests, looking away now. “What he did to me was painful and it wasn’t right, but it’s not the same as him participating in the cruelty of the slave trade and prisoner labor. What he did to you, to Fantine. What he helped my father do and how that hurt Frantz. How it hurt all those slaves we found on board. I don’t even know how long they’d been doing it without our knowing.”

“It’s not the same, no,” Valjean answers, thinking he might be getting to something. “But it doesn’t mean you weren’t hurt. By your grandfather, by your father, by Javert. That kind of treatment is no small thing.”

Enjolras falls silent for a moment, eyes drifting out to sea again as if he gains his confidence from the way the sunlight strikes the water.

“The night we made the decision to run,” Enjolras says, his voice so soft Valjean can scarcely hear it over the wind. “My grandfather found out we’d snuck onboard my father’s ship to help the slaves and he came to the house. My mother, she tried to stop him, but things got out of control and he struck me as he never had before. And Frantz got in the way, he put his hand on him, and my grandfather threatened charges after. And my father…I thought. I thought he would step in, then. _Discretion_ , was the word he used with my grandfather. I’d known it for a long time, but that was when I realized, when we realized, that he wasn’t going to save us. So Auden got us passage out. Javert almost caught us at the docks, and we got into a tussle,” Enjolras continues. He points to a small scar just above his eyebrow. “That’s where I got this. We got away because Frantz hit Javert with a tree branch.”

Enjolras looks over his shoulder at Combeferre, still talking enthusiastically with Asante over a set of maps and charts, fondness in his eyes.

“And your mother?” Valjean asks.

“I was leaving her a note and she caught us,” Enjolras says, and for the first time, Valjean sees Enjolras swipe at what must be growing moisture in his eyes. “But she let us go. I know what a sacrifice that was for her.”

“She’s a remarkable woman, your mother,” Valjean answers. “I only knew her for an evening, but she means a great deal to both Fantine and I.”

“Now I know why she always got an odd look when you escaping from Javert came up,” Enjolras says, his face lighting up again and washing some of the melancholy away. “To be quite honest, once I was old enough to understand and form my own opinions, I admired the both of you and Fantine for escaping like that. Not that I would tell Javert, of course.”

“Certainly not,” Valjean says, feeling a grin play at his lips.

“I wasn’t certain how to bring it up,” Enjolras says, and Valjean hears a trust in Enjolras’ voice that he thinks is natural to his character, only chipped at because of circumstance. “But we ran into Javert’s mother on Nassau.”

Surprise races through Valjean, and he feels his jaw drop. “I…really? Who is she?”

“A woman called Tiena,” Enjolras replies. “She works…”

“In the marketplace,” Valjean finishes. “We all know her.” Valjean remembers Fantine telling him she thought Javert might be Romani, the pieces falling together. “There’s a small group of Romani people on the island. Some have escaped slavery, others persecution in Europe. The world is so small, sometimes.”

Silence falls for a moment, and Valjean watches Enjolras smile as he gazes at the various groups scattered across the deck, and Valjean senses something about the sight calming the young man’s soul. Enjolras’ eyes flit over to Cosette, who holds Fantine’s dagger, Fantine’s hand resting over hers and adjusting her grip, Courfeyrac watching intently.

“You teach Cosette how to fight,” Enjolras says, though it’s not phrased as a question. “You and Fantine.”

“We do,” Valjean answers, noting something in Enjolras’ voice. “Do you think we should not?”

“Oh, no,” Enjolras says putting his hands up in apology. “I only…I hadn’t thought of it before and I am learning to think differently. It is my instinct, I suppose, to protect them. I am not familiar with women wielding weapons or taking part in battles, though Frantz used to tell me stories about his mother learning sword skills from her father. My mother, none of the society women I was around, would have been allowed such a thing.”

“That was my initial instinct with Fantine,” Valjean says, a layer of laughter in his voice as he remembers the past, remembering his own surprise. “But I learned differently. If it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t have escaped from Javert at all. I wouldn’t have made it off the ship if not for her skills and quick thinking. And since she’s become extremely capable with weapons. Well, you’ve seen her. We all try and protect each other, of course. But a great deal of women sail these seas, just as capable as the men.”

A half-smile slides onto Enjolras’ lips, and he nods. “The way I was raised I was taught that the only relationships I might really have with women were with my mother or with my wife. And I…I was never interested in a wife, in that domesticity. But since being here, since spending time with Fantine and Cosette, things have changed, I’ve seen that they can be my friends. That is…I hope they don’t mind.”

“Certainly not, lad,” Valjean says, tentatively reaching out and looking at Enjolras for permission before lightly touching his shoulder. “Cosette has grown attached to you already, and Fantine was murmuring to me that you, Frantz, and Auden need new clothing and she’s going to acquire it for you whether you liked it or not, which is a sure sign. Speaking of, are those new boots working out?” Valjean asks. “Breaking them in?”

“They’re wonderful, thank you,” Enjolras says. “We couldn’t be more grateful. Mine were pinching my feet and Frantz’s and Auden’s were falling apart.”

“A sailor needs their boots,” Valjean says. “Speaking of, Jahni says you’re a rather knowledgeable swordsman but that you hadn’t gotten to any cutlass training yet.”

“Javert was very precise in his staging,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. “I asked him to teach me, but said no cutlasses until I was sixteen.”

“Well correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not sixteen now?” Valjean asks, quirking one eyebrow.

“I am,” Enjolras says, laughing, the sound light and genuine.

“Well then we won’t be breaking any of Javert’s rules, then,” Valjean says, winking at him.

“I’d prefer if we did,” Enjolras quips. “But I’m sure we’re covering enough of that already.”

“I would say so,” Valjean replies. “Well then,” he continues, pulling his cutlass from his belt and watching Enjolras’ face light up as he does the same. “On guard, my good young sir.”

Another memory flickers in Enjolras eyes, but Valjean watches it fade as their swords cross, the present spinning around them instead in shades of perfect color.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea off the coast of Nevis. February 1707.**

"Hoist the colors!" Enjolras hears Valjean call out. 

Enjolras watches the black flag rise, whipping in the wind. He stands between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, feeling his chest tighten. He's not afraid of the battle ahead; he's more than ready for that. But this is the ship they suspect Combeferre's mother is aboard, and Enjolras hopes the trail they'd followed over the past few months has led them to the correct end. They'd caught up with the ship only a few leagues off the coast of Nevis out of the harbor in Charlestown, where they'd learned that a woman matching Chantal's name and description was just sold at an auction and was being transported on an East India ship. Combeferre reaches over and grasps Enjolras' hand, looking over with a nervous, but determined smile.

"All right?" Enjolras asks. 

"Ready," Combeferre clarifies, and Enjolras hears the unrelenting courage in his tone, feeling it steady his own heart. "I know it's not rational, entirely, but she's there. I feel like we've finally found her."

"It might not be rational," Courfeyrac says, leaning over and offering his hand, which Combeferre grasps tightly. "But it’s an instinct of the heart. Trust it."

They're so close now they can hear the sounds of the East India officers shouting and the captain calling commands. Enjolras' eyes graze over the side of the ship, a hint of anxiety pricking his stomach as it has the other times they've boarded East India vessels. It's not one he's seen or heard of before, but memories slap him in the face each time. He doesn't miss where he came from, he only feels anger and betrayal, but in his mind, the more they take from East India and give to those who need it, the better. Perhaps his father and Javert won't atone for their sins, but he will try in their place. 

_Pirates!_

Enjolras hears the words ring through the air, and something about it sends a thrill down his spine, the feeling shared as he sees similar ones reflected in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s expressions. When he’d heard tall tales of Valjean and Fantine as a boy, when he’d first spoken to those pirates at the harbor and seen men of all races sailing together under an equal flag, all of that had seemed like a faraway dream, something his father swore could never come true because of the rules in place. Yet here they are with the very two people Javert spent his life swearing he’d find, among people whose names his father would pronounce with disdain, people his mother helped escape, people who were here to help them reunite Combeferre with his mother and fulfill Arthur Combeferre’s greatest wish. Here they are living that dream. Life is a strange thing, and he cannot help but think they are doing more to honor Arthur’s memory than his father could hope for.

“Prepare to board!” Valjean shouts, and out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees Fantine press a kiss to the side of Cosette’s head, bidding her to go below. She looks a bit disgruntled as usual at not being allowed on boarding parties, exacting the promise that in a few years, she will.

“Ready the guns,” Fantine says to the crew remaining on board. “Hopefully we won’t need them, but this is East India.”

Enjolras hears their gangplank land on the side of the East India ship, squeezing Combeferre’s hand once more before following him across, Courfeyrac just behind them. Several of the men swing over on ropes, landing with loud thuds on the deck. The East India crew stands with weapons drawn, anticipation in their eyes.

“The infamous Fauchelevent, I presume?” the man Enjolras assumes is the captain asks. “I recognize your slave wench quartermaster from the wanted flyers.”

“That slave wench’s name is Fantine,” Fantine says, stepping up toward him, hand on her dirk but she doesn’t unsheathe it yet. “And I am not, as you may have noticed, a slave any longer and intend to make sure that is true of the several women you have on board this ship.”

“And just how do you know what cargo I carry?” the captain spits.

“Because dock workers are easier to bribe than you think,” Valjean answers. “Desperate to help whoever might give them money enough to think of something beyond their next meal. Perhaps even the next three. They’re glad to hand over information for that. If you stand down no harm will come to you.”

“Why would I believe a pirate?” the captain asks, contempt in his voice.

“Because I am a man of my word,” Valjean says, calm.

There’s a moment of long, aching silence that reverberates in Enjolras’ bones; there have been a few instances of men standing down while they took the what they intended from the ships, but it has never been the case with East India, and with a strong sense of foreboding, Enjolras thinks that pattern won’t break now.

“Fire!” the captain shouts. “Fire all!”

The clash and clatter of weapons rings in Enjolras’ ears, followed by the boom of their own cannons going off followed by another that shakes the ship when East India’s follow. He turns at the sound of Feuilly’s voice behind them.

“We need to go toward…” Feuilly began, expression serious and the past resting in his eyes.

“The hold,” Combeferre finishes for him. “The hold should be on the orlop deck on this ship.”

“Yes,” Feuilly says, grasping Combeferre’s arm in a shared moment. “Let’s go.”

Combeferre follows Feuilly and Enjolras and Courfeyrac go behind them, Fantine covering their path as she fends off a would-be attacker with her dirk, pushing him off. They dash down the stairs below, looking.

“Down and right. That’s usually the case on East India ships. This one is very similar to the _Navigator_ ,” Combeferre says in reference to the ship upon which he and Enjolras spent so much of their childhoods. Enjolras knows this ship because it’s an echo of the one he spent his childhood on. He knows the deck and the sails and hull and the rigging. All of it.

Now they all follow him, reaching a door after a few moments. Combeferre pauses when he reaches it, hand on the knob as he breathes in deep and closes his eyes. He pushes the door open, revealing four women on the other side, chained together and sitting against the wall among boxes of silks and sugar. Combeferre’s eyes land on a tall, lanky woman with a long braid and skin a few shades darker than his own. Enjolras recognizes her instantly, hearing her voice from child, friendly and teasing.

_I’ve heard so much about you, from Frantz’s letters, René Enjolras. I feel like I know you already._

Chantal.

Combeferre stares for a moment as the woman studies him, her eyes widening in surprise, the other woman looking on as she chokes out his name.

“Frantz?” she asks, voice breaking, the cracks filling in instantly with joy through the disbelief. “My baby, is that you?”

“Mama,” Combeferre says, stepping toward her, hands steady as he puts his hands in hers and she pulls him to her as best she can with her hands chained. “It’s you. It really is you.”

“Oh my boy my _boy_ ,” she says, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t…how did you find me?”

“We have to get you out of here. That’s why we’ve come,” he continues. “To get you out of here. All of you,” he says, looking around at the other women. “We have to get you to the ship, but I will explain the details later.”

Chantal nods, eyes falling on Enjolras as Feuilly picks the locks on their manacles, each of them dropping onto the floor with a thud one by one.

“René,” she says, a sly but warm smile on her face. “Didn’t I once say I thought you were trouble?”

“You did,” Enolras says, grasping Chantal’s hand when it’s offered.

“And now you are, I assume, sailing with pirates?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Seems I was right.”

“It would seem so,” Enjolras agrees, feeling himself blush. It occurs to him that she doesn’t know about Arthur, and thinks that explaining that will be one of the hardest things Combeferre will experience. Though from the look in her eyes and the fact that they’re sailing with pirates, Enjolras suspects she knows something is amiss.

“Your friend Fantine is the quartermaster,” Combeferre says, his mother putting her hand in his the moment her manacles fall to the ground, thanking Feuilly with a grateful gaze. “Do you remember her?”

“Of course,” Chantal says, expression brightening, though she frowns at the sound of another boom from the canons above. “If she’s the quartermaster then I’ve no doubt you’ve made an excellent choice.”

“We need to get these women to the ship,” Feuilly says, urgency in his voice. “That lull might mean they’re busy reloading the canons.”

Enjolras nods. “You and I take the front?” he asks.

“Yes,” Feuilly says. “Courfeyrac, guard them from behind?”

“Absolutely,” Courfeyrac says, unsheathing his cutlass and checking the pistol on his belt. “Lead the way.”

As they come back on deck several of their comrades go below, no doubt in search of the silks and money stored there. From a glance around Enjolras sees the East India ship is already damaged, but the fighting still goes on, and they’re met with resistance almost the moment they step up. Enjolras and Feuilly meet two East India officers with their swords no more than fifteen seconds after they emerge, and Enjolras hears the sound of Courfeyrac kicking a man to the deck behind them. Several of Valjean’s men gather around the other three women, escorting them through the melee and toward the gangplank, Combeferre sticking close to his mother’s side. The man Enjolras thinks is the quartermaster swoops in to the side of Combeferre and Chantal, pistol in hand and aimed toward them.

“Not so fast, boy,” he says, but Combeferre has his pistol out just as quickly, but he doesn’t point his weapon at the man himself, but at his weapon. There’s hesitation in his eyes, but his aim remains steady.

 _You can only shoot a man’s gun out of his hand without injury to him is if he’s close and to the side of you,_ Enjolras hears Arthur say during a lesson years ago. _It’s difficult._

They’d watched Arthur show on a practice target with success, and though neither of them managed, Combeferre had come close.

Today, his eyes focused and full of ire but determination to cause as little harm as he possible, he succeeds.

Enjolras watches the gun clatter to the deck, the quartermaster’s eyes wide in shock, but uninured as Arthur promised. Combeferre breathes hard for a moment, surprised at his own skill, until Fantine swoops in behind them, eyes lighting up when she sees their success, but there’s only time for the immediate. Realizing himself, the quartermaster unsheathes his sword, making toward Combeferre and Chantal, but Courfeyrac engages him instead moving so the man is forced down the deck and away from his intended target.

“We have to get you to the ship,” she says. “And get you below where you’re out of danger.”

Combeferre looks back at Enjolras and Feuilly, torn.

“Go,” Enjolras says. “We’ll be right behind you, this won’t last much longer.”

Combeferre smiles at them more guarding his mother from behind, Fantine leading them toward the gangplank. Before Enjolras and Feuilly can even exchange a word the captain from earlier, seeing the women escaping, runs toward them. In one fluid moment, both Enjolras and Feuilly raise their swords, meeting the captain’s. The three swords remain there until another East India officer approaches, no doubt with the intent of helping his captain, and Feuilly spins off to the side, engaging him. Enjolras and the captain hold their positions, swords crossed in the air above. The captain chuckles, but it’s a decidedly less than friendly sound.

“How old are you boy?” the captain asks. “Because I’m certain a deck-hand like yourself is no match for me.”

“Do not underestimate me,” Enjolras says, keeping his voice even but narrowing his eyes. “Plenty of deck hands know their way around a sword. That skill is not reserved for East India captains busy collecting their wealth at the expense of other human beings.”

The captain pulls his sword away, and there’s a pause as he considers, as if he hesitates over Enjolras’ youth, before he brings it down again on the offensive. Enjolras meets him strike for strike. How furious Javert would be, he thinks, if he knew the lessons he gave him were put to such a use. Enjolras steps back and swings around, his sword swiping across the captain’s arm.

“You wretched brat!” the captain screeches.

 The older man pauses for a moment hand going over the wound before running at Enjolras again, moving with a speed Enjolras cannot quite match.

 _We need to improve your footwork_ , he hears Javert say. _Speed it up a bit._

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a taller figure slide across the deck just as one of Enjolras’ strikes falters, and the captain’s sword cuts the top of Enjolras’ hand. The figure’s sword pushes the captain’s away, and the man nearly loses his balance.

Valjean.

Another attack and show of strength and the captain hits the deck, losing the grip on his sword as it clatters down onto the wood. The captain shakes his head, clearly dizzy, but doesn’t get up.

“You held your own, lad,” Valjean says, clasping his shoulder, a respect and a fondness in his eyes that’s come to mean a great deal to Enjolras over the past year.

“I tried,” Enjolras says. “His speed got me there at the end.”

“We’ll work on it,” Valjean replies. “Very few young men your age could have kept up with a man with that much experience.”

Enjolras opens his mouth in response, his reply cut off by the sound of one of their cannons firing a chain shot that flies toward one of East India’s course sails, ripping it right down the middle. Their foremast is already damaged, though with some emergency repairs they’ll likely make their way back to Nevis for more extensive ones. In any case, the ship won’t have the endurance for a chase.

“Retreat!” Valjean calls out. “Back to the ship.”

Enjolras whips around, looking for signs of Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Seemingly reading his mind Courfeyrac swoops up behind him, a victorious grin on his face, seizing his hand as they run together back to the Misericorde. Enjolras sees Valjean usher Feuilly in front of him and back toward the ship, and he releases a sigh of relief.

“Saw you keeping up with that captain,” Courfeyrac says. “Good show. I was keeping up with that dreadful quartermaster, though I used my cutlass, didn’t quite get a chance to try out the dirk.”

“Next time,” Enjolras says, dry, and Courfeyrac elbows him as they jump back on the deck.

There’s some stray East India fire, but over that Enjolras hears the captain shouting orders and telling the men to stand down and repair the ship.

“Prepare for sail,” Valjean calls out. “I want us far away from here when they gain movement again.”

Enjolras looks through the crowd, walking toward the captain’s quarters when he doesn’t spot Combeferre and Chantal, certain that’s where Fantine’s taken the escaped women. He finds the door ajar, the voices on the other side indicating that he’s right. Fantine tends to the other women, and Enjolras’ eyes land on Combeferre and Chantal who sit, Chantal’s hands on either side of her son’s face, stroking his cheek. Combeferre saves his tears for private moments, and even then they are rare and need coaxing; not that Enjolras can say he’s any less stubborn, and Courfeyrac would certainly attest otherwise, so he’s thrown when he sees tears streaming freely down Combeferre’s face when there are others in the room with them. But then he sees the tears in Chantal’s and puts the pieces together. He’s no doubt told her about Arthur, and possibly the short version of how they ended up here.

“He looked for you,” Combeferre says, wiping his eyes his hands sliding down his mother’s arms until they rest in hers. “He looked from the moment you didn’t arrive in Port Royal.”

“I knew he would,” she says, squeezing his hands. “But the slave ring got me in the middle of the night, and then I was sold through legitimate channels,” she says, the disgust in her voice splattering on the word legitimate. “I had no access to my freedom papers, and they moved me so many times…I’m not surprised he couldn’t find me.”

“Finding you was the first thing I wanted to do,” Combeferre continues. “And Captain Fauchelevent and Fantine, I couldn’t have done it without them. Papa would be so happy I’ve found you, he was worried you’d be lost when he died…”

“You did the right thing,” Enjolras hears her say, pulling Combeferre close again as his words trail off. “And he’d be proud of what you’re doing. I know it.”

These are words they’ve whispered to each other countless times, but hearing them from Chantal, invoking the memory of the only man who protected them, resonates. Once she’s satisfied the other women are all right, Fantine looks up, spotting Enjolras and coming over to him.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, gently picking up his hand while meeting his eyes and then looking down, examining the wound. “What happened?”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, looking down, the sting suddenly present again now that he’s remembered the wound. “I encountered the captain and crossed swords with him.”

“You gave him that wound on his arm?” Fantine says, quirking one eyebrow, impressed. “You are as fine a swordsman as we expected.”

“Well,” Enjolras says. “I held my own for a bit. I need faster footwork.”

“We’ll work on it,” Fantine says, echoing Valjean’s words. “Let me bandage that up for you.”

“I…”

“René,” she warns, and he stops his words in their tracks, submitting to the request.

As she’s wrapping his hand Combeferre and Chantal come over, the former taking over with Enjolras’ hand as the two women embrace.

“You found your freedom as well,” Chantal says, hands resting on Fantine’s forearms when they pull away. “And your daughter?”

“She’s here, up on deck helping prepare for departure,” Fantine says. “Thanks to the help of the captain of this ship and another pirate we inherited this ship from, in fact. Captain Myriel, I was reunited with her. And now you with Frantz.”

“It appears he couldn’t have fallen into better hands,” Chantal answers, pride and enduring love in her expression as she looks at Combeferre, who ties off the knot of Enjolras’ bandage. “Are you all right, René?”

“Just a small cut,” Enjolras answers, accepting her embrace when she gives it, and he finds it reminds him of her son, the understanding in it, the safety and the encouragement to always expand his thinking. “I’m relieved we’ve found you. Lieutenant Combeferre would be happy.”

“Yes he would,” Chantal answers, slipping another hand back into Combeferre’s. Above them, Enjolras hears the final command to set sail, feeling a familiar thrill rush through him. “Yes he would.”

**LMLMLMLMLM**

**Kingston, Jamaica. March 1707.**

Days like these, Javert thinks, are the reason he’s lately developed a penchant for snuff. He sits at a table across from Captain Moore of East India and his quartermaster, Blanchard, who are here giving a report of the pirate attack on their ship last month, though both men have spent far more time giving excuses for their loss instead of the needed information. Javert’s new superior officer Admiral Adams sits next to him, hands folded as he patiently goes down the list of questions while Javert writes down the answers, his hand having started cramping long ago. Michel was meant to be here as the East India representative of their new conjoined force against piracy, but he was called away by his father in law, who now has a political appointment from the king to do a bit of oversight and work with the Company. Michel’s presence, at least, might have made this a bit more bearable. And possibly faster, given his new power as a commodore. Javert doubts these men, now Michel’s underlings, would have droned on in such a fashion.

“And you’re certain it was Fauchelevent?” Admiral Adams ask, and internally, Javert flinches. It is not common knowledge that Fauchelevent is Valjean; Javert knows it’s true, of course, and Michel long ago came to believe the idea, as well as Baron Travers, but Javert would certainly rather not have it arise in front of the Admiral unless it becomes relevant to Javert’s pursuit of him, or if he was directly asked. The Royal Navy knows of the incident from long ago, of course, it is on his records from East India, but they do not equate the pirate they face now with the prisoner who escaped his grasp.

“Yes, Admiral, I’m certain,” Moore responds. “He answered to it himself. And his slave woman quartermaster. Wretches, all of them.”

“And they damaged some of your sails, your rigging, and the foremast?”

“Yes. We made it back to Nevis, but it took a week to repair the ship in order to arrive back in Jamaica.”

“And you lost four slaves and several boxes of silks as well as paper money, is that correct?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Captain Moore says, annoyed. “Do you really need such detail?”

“It is not a mark against you, Captain Moore,” Javert says, looking up from his notes. “Our joined forces are trying to curb piracy in the region, and these particular pirates are a menace.”

“As Commander Javert said,” Admiral Adams confirms. “And you were injured?” he asks, gesturing to the captain’s arm.

“Yes,” the captain repeats, clearing his throat, embarrassed about something.

“I need to know how and by whom for the report,” Admiral Adams says. “Anything you can recall.”

“Just a simple wound to the arm by sword,” Captain Moore.

“By Fauchelvent?” the admiral asks.

“No, though he did keep me from doing in the scoundrel who was responsible,” he replies, a hand going to his arm. “A young blond brat. I don’t know his name.”

Javert’s eyes widen for a moment, though he prevents himself from visibly starting.

Surely…surely the first thought entering his mind cannot be true. There are a great many blond young men in the region. Though far less, he thinks, that could manage injuring an experienced East India captain in a sword fight. He shakes his head, but he cannot rid himself of the thought.

“All right, commander?” the admiral asks.

“Yes sir,” Javert responds.

He will not risk his new standing in the Royal Navy for a suspicion, and there’s not enough evidence besides. But he tucks the piece of information away in his head. It’s not even enough to tell Michel yet, who even though he trusts Javert implicitly, feels he focuses far too much on Valjean. It is a minuscule shred, a crumb, the first piece of a trail that makes him wonder; on whatever blessed day he gets his hands on Valjean and Fantine-and he will, no matter how long it takes-if he might just find someone else along with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Javert is playing the long game, as is his wont. Also, as a note, I did some research on whether or not you could shoot a gun out of someone's hand without hurting them, and apparently you CAN in a very specific way, which I tried to replicate. Definitely not like you see in the movies, so the more you know.


	12. Book II (Coming Together): Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chantal learns about and falls into step with Valjean's crew, finding a place on Nassau and deepening her friendship with Fantine. Javert recieves a visit to his office from the last person he ever expected would knock on his door. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac learn about the realities they face in their life as pirates and the battles they fight. Then, Valjean and the whole crew experience a close call with the past, which he suspects the sea will not let them avoid forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd here is the next chapter! This chapter has some melancholy vibes (but a lot of action!) but will be made up for by lots of antics in the next chapter because all of the Amis will converge and meet! In any case, I hope you enjoy this and thank you for all the lovely feedback! :D Oh and just as a note, apparently it was common practice for pirates to keep various flags on their ships to hide in plain sight (hence the references to flying the French flag here, they kept flags of different countries) and they only raised the black flag (or the skull and crossbones) when they were looking to fight.

**Book II (Coming Together): Part 3**

**Port-de-Paix, Haiti (Saint-Domingue). 1707.**

Fantine watches the sun set over the city, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, gesturing at the others beside her to do the same.

“Let’s go,” she says. “We need to be quick and get out of port before they suspect.”

She starts walking, hoisting a knapsack containing coins they’d stolen off a smaller East India ship. Cosette, Chantal, and Combeferre follow behind her, and she watches Valjean, Feuilly, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac go the other direction. Behind them the _Misericorde_ sits toward the end of the docks, half hidden by trees, French flag whipping in the sea breeze.

“So you do this often?” Chantal asks. “Take these goods and drop them at people’s doorsteps?”

“It’s part of what we do,” Fantine answers. “Money is the best, obviously, but sometimes we leave silks, people can sell those, or other things of value we might find. Diamonds, cotton. We scout out the poorer areas and leave them there for people to find.”

“I’d heard of it, actually,” Chantal answers, twisting the end of her braid, which emerges beneath her cloak. “Some of the slaves on the plantations spoke of it. Of course, I had no idea it was you.”

She smiles, elbowing Fantine teasingly in the side, but there’s something else written in the way it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I think sometimes about all the native people who used to live here,” Chantal says. “The Taino. So many of them killed by European diseases.”

“Valjean speaks of that,” Fantine answers. “He is part Carib, as is Jahni. There’s very few left of them, either. I always heard the words _economic stability_ ,” Fantine grumbles. “But what of the stability of the people who already lived on these islands? We don’t all define it in the same way. They also say _progress_ , but I don’t see the deaths of those people as any such thing. I see it as the opposite. They say the same things about slavery.”

Fantine watches Chantal look back at Combeferre, the smile widening just a bit as he gestures excitedly about something to Cosette, who looks eager.

“Did you know there was a slave revolt here in 1679?” she hears Combeferre say. “It was the first of its kind, they said.”

Chantal turns back around, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder.

“We’ll be out of here quickly,” Fantine says, lowering her voice, though she thinks Combeferre and Cosette are occupied enough that they won’t hear. “I know it must be hard for you to be here, where you raised Frantz.”

“Not for you?” Chantal asks, looking sheepish. “This is where Tholomyes separated you and Cosette.”

“It was the first time we came here,” Fantine answers. “It felt like a knife in my side. It’s not easy now…I think places have an effect on us more than we think. But I found it helped to return here, sometimes, to help the people here that need it. People that we were all these years ago.”

“I understand,” Chantal says, looking back at Combeferre and Cosette. “But both of us reunited with our children! I’d hoped, always. But the reality of it is almost overwhelming.”

“I know,” Fantine says, reaching over and squeezing Chantal’s hand. “I’m so relieved we found you. It took some time.”

“It was like something out of a miracle,” Chantal says. “Your ship sailing up like that. And then to see not only Frantz, but you aboard. I couldn’t have hoped for better.”

“I know you were upset over the news of Arthur,” Fantine answers, keeping hold of her friend’s hand.

“I had a feeling something happened when he didn’t find me,” Chantal says, voice wavering. “Not that people don’t get lost, especially in the slave trade. But he was always so determined, since the moment I met him. If I hadn’t told him to return to his job he would have given it all up.”

“He loved you,” Fantine says. The words make her think of Tholomyes and how much she’d loved him once, and in turn how much pain he’d caused her, how he’d nearly destroyed her life and how much she disdains him now. Sometimes he seems like a part of another life, but with Cosette as the result, she cannot regret.

“He did,” Chantal says, the memory of Arthur a light in her eyes. “And I him. It will take me some time to grieve, even if I suspected it for a while. He was always saying he’d find a way for us to be together, but he didn’t fully see the reality of it, I think. I don’t know where we would have gone, where we would have been accepted but…” she trails off, grief in face. “But I appreciated how much he hoped for it and all the time he took coming to us, making sure our needs were met. And I know that so many terrible things happened after Arthur died, and I think I’ve only heard the short version. Things I’d go back in time and stop if I could. But Frantz got the education I always wanted for him, he had years to spend with Arthur and he met Rene, then Auden. He found you. “She looks over at Fantine again, and Fantine has the sense again that there’s something she’s not saying. “I see so much of Arthur in Frantz. So really in part, he still lives. He looks like me, but he has his father’s eyes, and his smile. His knack for navigation and loyalty.”

“I remember meeting Arthur,” Fantine says. “I remember how kind he was. I remember the way you talked about him. I’m just so sorry about what happened.”

“So am I,” Chantal answers. “And I know he died saving Michel Enjolras and that just…I know what Michel meant to him, and to know what happened after, what he was participating in…”

“Chantal,” Fantine says as they approach the planned street. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Chantal sighs, stopping in her tracks as she watches Fantine hand off her bag to Cosette. Chantal does the same with Combeferre, who kisses her cheek before he joins Cosette.

“Will they be all right?” Chantal asks, worry in her voice.

“They will,” Fantine says. “They’ve done this many times and we can see all the way down the street from here.”

Chantal nods and Fantine waits a beat, hoping her friend will unburden herself.

“I…” Chantal tries. “I am so proud of what all of you are trying to accomplish here. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel at first, the illegality of it all, but the law as it stands hasn’t helped me once. It prevented me from marrying the man I loved. It didn’t help me when I got swept into the slave trade. It bars my brilliant son from so many places and opportunities, even with his father being who he was. We’ve experienced such pain under the laws in place and such freedom when breaking them. And I want to be a part of that, but I confess, being on a ship brings back memories of when I was taken. I was stuffed into the hold with so many others and people around me died and I…”

Fantine takes both of Chantal’s hands in hers when her friend’s voice dies, pulling her closer.

“If sailing isn’t for you then we will find something that is,” Fantine says. “Nassau has a whole swath of things.”

“I keep hearing so much about Nassau that I almost can’t believe it exists,” Chantal says, eyes watery as she chuckles.

“It does,” Fantine says. “And there’s a space for you in our small house there.”

“Fantine…”

“No protests,” Fantine insists. “We’re all family now, and there’s an extra bed in mine and Cosette’s room both. Besides, Frantz already stays there, so it’s natural.”

“And you believe there’s something for me to do there?” Chantal asks. “I wouldn’t go anywhere else of course, but I want to do something.”

“Well if I remember correctly you were excellent at sewing and crafting and jewelry-making,” Fantine says. “That necklace you made Frantz has survived a long while, through a lot of wear and tear. There a marketplace on Nassau full of things like that. And I know you once told me you knew some swordsmanship, I’m sure some of the women on the island would appreciate learning. There’s so many things for you.”

“Thank you,” Chantal says, squeezing Fantine’s hands and then drawing her into a full, warm embrace. Fantine scarcely remembers her own parents who died before memory set in fully, but she imagines how safe young Frantz must have felt within his mother’s arms, sensing that the slightly older woman who was her friend will soon feel like a sister. “I’m not sure how Frantz will feel about me not sailing as often. I want him to continue of course, I know how fulfilled this makes him, how happy he sailing with his friends and doing this good. Even if there are difficult aspects. And dangers that worry me.”

“He would want you to do good in your own way, and in a fashion that makes you comfortable,” Fantine says. “He’s so bright, and to hear him discuss all the scientific advancements he learned about from his tutors, the things he reads. Well it’s clear he realizes just how many different types it takes for the progress we hope for.”

“Mama!” Cosette calls out, dashing back toward them with Combeferre, their bags empty.

“What did you find darling?” Fantine asks, intrigued.

“A poster of Papa,” she says, resting one hand on her hip and holding up two pieces. “I took the liberty of ripping it in half.”

“It was a terrible likeness, besides,” Combeferre says, dry amusement in his voice as he quirks an eyebrow. “He didn’t even have a beard.”

Fantine laughs and beside her so does Chantal, a clear note of happiness in the sound.

“Come on,” she says. “We need to catch up with the others and get back on the ship before anyone suspects us.

Fantine picks up at a run, laughing again, twirling around as she goes and kicking a line of sand into the water beyond here at the edge of the island, the moon shining full above them.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1707**

There’s too much light in the sky for Tiena’s taste. She makes her way through the deserted evening streets of Kingston, the quiet punctuated by the sounds from packed taverns every now and again as she passes by. She keeps close to the sides of buildings in the shadows, afraid of what the patches of moonlight might reveal; that she is Romani, that she is a pirate, that she looks for a son who might just turn her away. The first two reveal her crimes against society and the law, one from birth and one from choice, the third reveals a heartbreak she cannot share, even with the people she hesitatingly trusts. Her son has done a great many people she knows, good people in her eyes, injury, and yet she loves him. She craves his acceptance in a way she cannot explain. Orion twinkles above her as she looks up at the sky, the stars outlining his sword and his belt, and she recalls young Rene telling her that Nicholas taught him swordsmanship. Born to Poseidon, Tiena wonders if Orion shines brighter near the sea than anywhere else.

She looks down at her own clothing, hardly recognizing herself. She’d changed out of her normal clothes in the hopes she might travel more easily, though she’d done so out of sight of the other Romani women on Nassau.

“Nicholas has shunned us,” her friend Lela said, the only person from the early years she still knew, who’d joined her on Nassau. “Would arrest us if given the chance. If you go looking for him you put yourself at risk. You will not get him back.”

Yet here she is, hoping. She couldn’t live with herself otherwise. She arrived in Port Royal after months of gathering her courage and her money, finding Captain Enjolras’ crew moved to Kingston. She arrived in Kingston a few days later, receiving word at the docks from some sailors that Nicholas was now in the British Royal Navy, working with East India in curbing piracy.

“Some are starting to call him the Wolf of the Caribbean,” they told her, apprehension written in their faces.

They pointed her in the direction of his office, and she finds they were right. _Lieutenant N. Javert_ , the nameplate on the outside reads. The door stands cracked open, a slice of candlelight visible under the door. Tiena breathes in deep, stilling her trembling hands, and knocks.

“Come in,” a deep voice she barely recognizes calls out. It was just changing when she lost him, and she misses the childish tone.

She pushes the door open, stepping inside, closing it firmly behind her in case their voices carry. She doesn’t move away from it, fearful she might need a quick escape. Javert looks up at her, gray eyes squinting for a moment before they widen in utter shock, his hand freezing in mid-motion, still holding a quill.

“Nicholas,” she tries, speaking first, one hand on the doorknob and one reaching out toward him. “Do you know who I am?”

He stares at her for a few seconds more, and she sees a flash of the grave young boy she knew in his features, the boy whose rare laughter she treasured more than anything in the world. She thinks of the sketch of him she kept for so long, a memory of a night around a bonfire and a snatch of happiness. She remembers singing softly to him on nights when storms thrashed the ship about and he couldn’t sleep.

“Mother,” he says, and she wraps herself in the word. She hasn’t heard it in so long.

She examines him for a moment. His black hair is tied back with nary a strand out of place, his hat resting off to the side of his desk. He’s dressed in a blue frock coat and a white waistcoat, surely finer than anything she could ever afford for him. Even though he’s sitting she can tell he’s tall, shoulders broad and the rest of him still a bit angular, something he didn’t outgrow from childhood. His eyes narrow, and he speaks again.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, standing up from his desk, laying his palms flat on the papers in front of him and dropping his quill.

“I came looking for you,” she says, finally letting go of the doorknob and stepping fully into the room. He pulls back from the desk, the piece of furniture acting as a barrier between them.

“How did you know I was here?” he asks, sounding frightened, as if he fears her mere presence will ruin everything. “How did you know I was alive?”

“I heard word of you,” Tiena answers, darting around mention of meeting Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, around the knowledge that she knows Valjean and Fantine and their crew. “Heard of your career. I looked for you in Port Royal but…”

“I’ve been in Kingston for a year,” he says, interrupting her, anger curling beneath the syllables.

“I know,” she says, hearing tears cut into an odd, nervous laugh in her voice.

“Why are you _here_?” he asks, voice harsh now.

“I came looking for you,” she answers, feeling a pressure growing in her chest. Most of her knew she wouldn’t receive a warm welcome, but she hadn’t accounted for just how coldly he behaves. “I couldn’t find you for years. And when I heard word…I admit it took me months to find my courage, but I couldn’t…I couldn’t do anything but look for you.”

“After you left me, you mean?” he spits, stepping around his desk now, closer to her, but still a few strides back.

“Nicholas,” she breathes. “I would never have left you on purpose. You were all I had left in the world after your father died. When we were separated that day privateers kidnapped me with the intent of selling me into slavery. I escaped, but when I came back I couldn’t find you. I looked and looked for years. And found nothing.”

Javert steps forward and then thinks better of it, hands clenching into fists at his sides as his breathing audibly hitches, looking as though he cannot quite process her words, his eyes looking as if they’re moistening with tears, as if something against his better judgement breaks through at this new revelation. He steps forward again, hand reaching out and grasping her wrist as he searches her face, deciding whether or not he believes her. She dares to reach up, touching his cheek lightly with the back of her hand. He allows it for a mere half a second before he slaps it away, stepping back again and letting go. He swallows, closing his eyes and clearing his throat, vulnerability disappeared.

“I used to hate you for leaving me,” he says, voice laced with disgust. “But now I can only take it as a blessing, whether you meant to leave me or not. Losing you gave me this life I never would have achieved among thieves and scoundrels. A life I’m sure you’ve kept up.”

“Nicholas, _please_ ,” she begs him, though she feels frustration and annoyance mounting, mixing with the despair.

“What have you been doing these past years?” he asks. “Pirating? Thieving? All the deplorable things I grew up with?”

“I wouldn’t admit to anything I’ve done in front of an officer of the Royal Navy,” she says, hearing the ice in her own voice now, matching his own. “I tell you I was nearly sold into slavery and you have no sympathy for that? You saw the hunger and the pain and the struggle for mere survival in front of your very eyes, Nicholas. You experienced it yourself, yet here you stand, shunning anyone you doesn’t fit your standards.”

“You don’t know anything of me,” he argues, suspicion in his voice.

“I know enough,” she says.

“So you accuse me of judging all criminals as one, of not granting _law-breakers_ any empathy, yet you would do the same with the entire Royal Navy,” he says. “How very hypocritical.”

“I never said that,” she shoots back. “I’m sure there are good men in the Royal Navy, but even if I laid out the sins of it to you I’m sure you wouldn’t agree. Do you pressgang any of your underlings, Nicholas? I know that goes on more than anyone wants to admit.”

“I have not…” Javert tries, but Tiena feels her frustration build, interrupting him.

 “I know you’ve participated in the slave trade. I can imagine the rest of it from there.”

“And you know that how, exactly?” he asks.

“I know you worked for East India,” she replies. “That you worked under one of the most powerful officers. I know the company’s reputation. I can fill in the blanks. You should….” She stops the words in their tracks, the words _ashamed of yourself_ dying on her lips. She can’t make herself say them. Part of her is proud of him for surviving as he has, for being a better man than his father, who she loved despite herself and his mood swings. But his worldview, the things he’s participated in, the way he’d treated young Rene and Frantz, those are things that she didn’t teach him, and seeing those traits in him hurts her.

“I should be what exactly?” Javert asks, stepping closer again, his face leaning in close to hers now. “Ashamed? No. I have no cause for shame anymore. My only shame stands right in front of me.”

She’s the one staring now, feeling as if someone’s swung a hammer at her heart. Part of her wants to break down crying, but she knows that will not help her cause.

“I am your shame?” she questions. “I am your _mother_.”

“Children do not always end up like their parents,” Javert says, and Tiena sees the memories of Enjolras in his eyes. “For better or for worse.”

“You would shun me because of my Romani blood?” she asks. “Is that the society you want so badly to be a part of? One that would do that?”

“Blood has nothing to do with it,” Javert replies. “It is the fact that the people from which I unfortunately descend, the people you do not shun, make their lies by thievery and licentiousness. Do you not think there is a reason why the Romani people are eschewed?”

“I know the reasons,” she snaps. “And those reasons are far from honorable.”

“I worked hard to rid myself of the stains of my birth and upbringing,” he says, sounding a bit like a child again, his voice softer in his remembrance. “I scraped by and I hid it and I found a place, an honorable profession.”

“And your friend Commodore Enjolras,” she say, chancing bringing up his name. “He doesn’t mind your past?”

“Captain Enjolras,” he says, slow, something dangerous in his voice. “Has done a great deal for me. More than my own father, certainly. And he’s seen fit to forgive my accident of birth, given my work.”

“He’s seen fit to forgive it,” Tiena repeats. “Is that how it works? You are the exception to the discrimination because of his own affection for you?”

“You do not know me anymore, mother,” he says, a snarl in his voice. “You do not my life any longer. And I will not allow the implication that I did not work for the respect I have now. And I will not allow _anything_ to ruin it.”

“A former outcast so desperate to be a part of the society who made him so that he hates and separates himself from those he should help,” she says, her voice a whisper now. “Who would create more outcasts.”

“ _Quiet_ ,” he insists, voice growing hoarse.

“Do you not understand that I came here because I love you?” she asks, stepping toward him, but he only steps back. “I know you care about me, Nicholas. You loved me, once. You cannot escape that.”

He looks away from her, his expression as inscrutable as her own sometimes is, his perfect posture faltering.

“I want you to go,” Javert says, retreating back behind his desk and placing the furniture between them once more, his voice sounding hollow.

“You aren’t going to arrest me?”

“I only have suspicion, not evidence, of current crime,” Javert responds, looking up at her again. “Or believe me, I would not hesitate.”

She’s about to respond when there’s another knock on the door, and the person on the other side doesn’t wait for a response before entering.

“Michel,” Javert says, looking flustered. “You’re earlier than I expected.”

“Finished the report sooner than planned,” the man who must be Michel Enjolras answers, eyes running over her in curiosity. He already knows who she is, she suspects, and looks stiff and awkward at her presence. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced, Madame.” His French accent is light on the English words, and she thinks that if she were someone else, his words might sound warmer, though he’s still polite.

“My mother,” Javert responds, embarrassment grating into his tone, panic flaring in his eyes.

“Tiena Javert,” she responds.

“I didn’t…” Michel replies, eyes darting over to her son and back again to her. He stands straight and tall, blond hair neat and tidy with a few silver hairs growing at his temples. She sees young Rene’s eyes in his own. Law and order writes itself across the lines in his face, yet she still sees the exhaustion there, the questioning.

_Am I right?_

“Are you…staying?” he continues, and she’s surprised he doesn’t order her out immediately. It is his respect for her son, she’s sure, which keeps his tone friendly.  

“She was just leaving,” Javert responds, glaring at her, and she feels her heart crack anew.

She gazes at him a moment longer, memorizing his features even as they show nothing but contempt for her now. She memorizes them in the hope that one day, she might see them full of something else.

“Take care of him, Commodore Enjolras,” she says before she can help it, hearing a noise of protest emerge from her son’s mouth, but he stays behind the desk still, protecting himself from his own emotions through use of physical space. “Goodnight sir.”

She cannot make herself look at Nicholas again, and opens the door, standing in the hallway for a moment, her legs shaking beneath her.

“I’m sorry, Michel,” she hears Javert say. “I certainly did not expect her on my doorstep.”

“Nicholas, are you certain…”

She doesn’t hear the end of the sentence because she doesn’t think she can bear what it contains, running from the door, trembling legs and all. She’s rented a room at an inn for the night, but finds she cannot make it there before the tears she wouldn’t show her son burst out of her. She darts behind a tree, sliding down against it until she’s sitting in the sand. She looks up at the stars above her, cursing them and doing her best to form a prayer to a god she’s not sure exists. She pulls out the bracelet Enjolras gave back to her, running a thumb over the worn leather.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she says. “But please, bring my son back to me. I can wait, I just…someday. It’s all I ask.”

In the silence, she’s only met with the stars twinkling back at her, burning bright against the darkened sky.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, the Bahamas. 1707.**

“Ah!” Enjolras shouts, nearly losing his balance as he trips over a rum bottle lodged in the sand near the walkway of the market. “Why is that still there? People need to pick up after themselves.”

“You know how it is, Rene,” Courfeyrac says, clapping his old friend affectionately on the back. “One has a bit too much rum or other liquors and forgets to throw the bottle away from whence it came. There was some sort of bonfire near here last night.”

Enjolras looks back at him, expression blank.

“Or well. Perhaps you don’t,” Courfeyrac says. “What sort of pirate are you, my friend?”

“As if you have so much experience with over-drinking at near 18,” Enjolras says, amused now.

“Don’t you remember that first time Auden did have too much rum?” Combeferre asks, and Courfeyrac feels himself blush at Fantine and Chantal’s laughter. The two women walk just behind them, arms linked. “Said something about how your hair glowed and then had a wicked headache all the next day.”

“In my defense,” Courfeyrac responds. “Rene’s hair _does_ glow, sometimes. Have you seen the way the sun hits it? And also that was the first time I’d had rum. I was only ever able to nick wine from my father’s stores. I’m building up a tolerance.”

“Uh huh,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac elbows him.

They chatter as they walk along. They’ve been showing Chantal the sights around Nassau, taking her to the marketplace so that she might see if she’d like to set up her own spot there one day. Courfeyrac knows Combeferre feels a bit torn about sailing while his mother remains on land, but he also suspects Chantal wouldn’t suffer her son giving up his passions and interests. And now, to a large extent, how he exercises what he feels, what they all feel, is their purpose. They’re almost to the end of the row, approaching the cart Courfeyrac recognizes as Tiena’s when he hears the man speaking to her call out to Fantine.

“Fantine!” the man who looks about her age calls out.

“Robins,” Fantine says, her voice warm as she walks up and clasps his hand. “I’d heard you were here, and with your own ship.”

“Indeed,” he says, surveying the rest of them. “And who are your companions?”

“These three are members of my crew,” she says, gesturing at the three of them. “Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. And this is Chantal, Combeferre’s mother.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Robins answers, eyes catching on Enjolras for a moment when Fantine says his name, obviously recognizing it, but doesn’t press.

“This is Robins,” Fantine says, explaining. “He was aboard Captain Myriel’s ship with us. An escaped prison laborer like Valjean.”

“And you have your own ship now?” Courfeyrac asks. “Good on you!”

“Thank you lad,” Robins, says, grinning.

“We’ve heard a great deal about Captain Myriel,” Enjolras adds.

“He was an excellent man,” Robins answers. “One of the best I’ve known. Though Valjean certainly approaches being his equal.”

“He’d protest immensely if he heard you say that,” Fantine says, sharing his grin.

“It’s only the truth,” Robins says, running his fingers through his ginger beard. “Where’s your lovely Cosette?”

“Tending to some ship repairs with Valjean and Jahni,” Fantine says. “She likes to be a part of it all.”

“I do remember that,” Robins says. “Well, I’d best get going, I was just speaking to Tiena here about an order for some new trousers. I’ll see all you about, I’m sure.”

Fantine nods, clasping his shoulder as he walks away, turning back to Tiena. Courfeyrac gazes at her for a moment, thinking she looks exhausted, the spark he’d seen when they met her nearly extinguished.

“Tiena,” Fantine says. “We noticed you missing for several weeks, it’s good to see you back. You’re such a cornerstone that there was some worry something happened to you.”

“Well,” Tiena says, and Courfeyrac hears the sadness vibrating in her voice, and as he looks at Enjolras, he knows he’s not alone in hearing the sound. Something about it bears the mark of her son, and even though Courfeyrac barely knows her, he feels indignant on her behalf. He knows all too well when he looks at the scar over Enjolras’ eyebrow the sort of pain that Javert is capable of inflicting. “I was gone on a…trip. But I’m back now. I don’t imagine I’ll be going anywhere for a while. And who is this new addition to your group? Chantal, was it? I know these boys of course.” She smiles at them. “Hello, you three. Not causing Valjean and Fantine too much trouble, I hope?”

“Not too much,” Combeferre says, putting his hand on his mother’s arm. “And this is my mother, Chantal. We were looking around the market, convincing her that she should sell things here. She’s excellent at sewing and jewelry making. All sorts of things.”

“Frantz,” Chantal chides, the fondness in her voice overflowing.

“Well it’s true,” Combeferre insists. “You basically ran a business out of our house on Haiti.”

“Don’t oversell me, darling,” Chantal says.

“I’m not,” Combeferre says. “Besides I’m a frightful liar.”

“He is,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s why Valjean’s grooming him to be the sailing master rather than the master of reconnaissance.”

Combeferre huffs, rolling his eyes affectionately.

“You know,” Tiena says, studying Chantal. “It’s interesting you mention that. I’ve actually been thinking of looking for some help, to expand what I do here. This island’s population grows more every day. There’s nearly a thousand pirates here now.”

“So this lot was telling me,” Chantal, flipping her braid over her shoulder, looking intrigued.

“If you’d like to come by here tomorrow and discuss it I certainly wouldn’t be opposed,” Tiena says. “What do you say?”

Chantal looks back at her for a moment, then glances over at her son, then back to Tiena, a decision forming in her eyes.

“I’d love to,” she says after a moment. “Thank you. I hope I can be of help.”

“I suspect you will,” Tiena says, a little more life in her smile. “And welcome to Nassau.”

Chantal smiles back, and as Tiena turns back toward packing up her booth, Chantal turns to Combeferre.

“You are all right with this my dear?” she asks. “I know you love to sail, and I may come with you sometimes, but I….”

“I understand,” Combeferre says, taking both of her hands in his. “I’ve seen slaves packed together on those ships, and to imagine that happening to you, I…” he falters for a moment, clearing his throat, and Chantal swipes a finger down his cheek in comfort. “Well I understand if you wouldn’t want to spend all your time on a ship. And there’s so much for you to do here in Nassau.”

“So it seems,” Chantal answers, squeezing his hands. Courfeyrac never met Arthur Combeferre, but he knows enough about him to see why he would have fallen in love with this woman.

“And you…you are all right with my sailing still?” Combeferre asks.

“Of course,” Chantal says, sincere. “I know what it means to you, what everything you’re doing means to you. And I can be a part of that here. Besides, you’ll be in Nassau frequently, and I’m staying with all of you here. We’ll see each other all the time.” She pauses, searching his face, worrying flickering in her features that she wipes away after a moment. “Just be as careful as you can, all right?”

“I will,” Combeferre says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, a few inches taller than her now. “I swear it.”

“See?” Fantine says, joyous. “I told you there was something on Nassau for you. Already you’ve got an offer.”

“I should listen to you, apparently,” Chantal says, the wryness in her voice sounding so like her son’s.

“We’d best get back and see how the ship repairs are coming,” Fantine says. “And then home for dinner, I think.”

“Hear hear,” Courfeyrac says, turning on his heel, pleased at the happiness in Combeferre and Chantal’s faces.

As they turn, however, they hear Tiena’s voice call out to them, sounding almost guilty.

“Fantine,” she says, and all of them turn back around, seeing an odd sort of fear in her expression.. “I…you should know that my son he…he’s joined the British Royal Navy. As part of an effort to curb piracy in the region, if my sources are correct.”

Courfeyrac feels Enjolras go rigid beside him, and he takes a gentle, reassuring hold of his wrist.

“Oh,” Fantine says, surprised at this sudden information. “Where did you hear that?”

“From some men at the docks in Kingston,” Tiena says. “And I…I saw him.”

Fantine’s eyes widen for a moment before she adjusts her expression, and Courfeyrac feels Enjolras lean in closer to him. Courfeyrac suspects Fantine wishes she could speak to Tiena about what happened, but it’s clear that the other woman isn’t keen about answering questions about the incident, so Fantine resists.

“Thank you for telling us,” Fantine says. “I know Valjean will certainly appreciate the information.”

Tiena nods, holding their gaze for a moment before looking away and going back to her work.

They start walking away, silent for at least two minutes before Enjolras’ voice breaks through, cold with anger.

“My father always said he would find me a place in the navy,” he says, eyes looking off into the distance toward something Courfeyrac can’t see, something intangible but nonetheless real. “I see he’s used it for Javert instead.” He shakes his head, snapping out of his reverie and looking at Fantine. “Not that I…I don’t want to be in the navy. I want to be here.”

“I never doubted that Rene,” Fantine says, tugging on a loose blond curl.  “I know what you meant. If you want to talk to Tiena…”

“No,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. “Whatever Javert did to her, it won’t be something that surprises me. I don’t want to press her about it, even though part of me hoped…” he trails off, not finishing his sentence.

 _Hoped he’d changed_ , Courfeyrac thinks.

“Well,” Fantine says. “If he comes looking for us, we’ll be ready. I suspect Javert underestimates us.”

And that, Courfeyrac thinks, is the most dangerous thing his friend’s former tutor could do.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea. 1708.**

They hadn’t seen East India ship coming.

They especially hadn’t been prepared to find it full of not just East India men, but Royal Navy officers, all joined together and boarding the _Misericorde_. It was the first time since they’d joined Valjean and Fantine’s crew that Enjolras saw them taken by surprise. It’s one of the biggest, Enjolras thinks, easily as large as his father’s though different by design, looking as if it holds a bit less cargo and a few more cannons, possibly refitted from a retired naval ship.

Most of the battle is a haze; cannons and gunfire and the clanging of swords ring in his ears, and he feels his arms straining as the fighting continues. It’s when he sees two men cornering Courfeyrac, one pointing his gun at Coufeyrac’s head, the other with his sword at Courfeyrac’s throat, that he feels the fear curl in his stomach, but his head remains utterly clear as the decision in front of him presents itself. There’s not time for rushing the men with his cutlass, not with two weapons pressed to his friend. Enjolras pulls the pistol off his belt; Combeferre’s closer and the better shot, but something in Enjolras cannot bear seeing him aim his gun at the needed target. Combeferre sees him, meeting his eye and tilting his head for a split second as Enjolras raises his gun. The slice of a moment seems to last forever, but Enjolras looks away, his aim more sure now from practice with both Combeferre and Valjean, though he thinks of just how much he prefers swords. He sees Combeferre raise his own pistol in his periphery, but he’s already fired. He’s surprised how fast he hears the sound of his own pistol explode in his ears. Time freezes as he watches the bullet fly, striking the man holding the gun to Courfeyrac in the chest. He falls hard to the deck, blood seeping onto the fabric of the East India uniform. It looks like his fathers, he remembers. Like Javert’s.

The man isn’t moving.

 _We do not kill unless it is inevitable_ , Valjean said during their first few weeks on the crew.

Until now, it hadn’t been inevitable. But today…

He feels Combeferre’s eyes on him, but he cannot look up.

Having just one opponent gives Courfeyrac his chance, engaging the other officer with his dirk, using the moves Fantine taught him more and more easily, until he injures the man enough to get away. Blood flows from a wound on Courfeyrac’s thigh, and there’s a visible limp. Enjolras doesn’t remember much of the next few moments, only recalls swooping in on Courfeyrac from one side with Combeferre on the other so he has support to walk faster.

“Thank you,” he hears Courfeyrac whisper in his ear, out of breath, teeth no doubt clenched against the pain of his wound. “That second scoundrel snuck up on me. And they say they have more honor than we do.”

He hears Valjean shouting orders as the Royal Navy and East India officers call a retreat, but it’s clear they’ve barely made it out of this battle. Suddenly, Cosette is at their side, placing Courfeyrac’s arm around her waist and delivering him to the ship’s surgeon.

“He’ll be all right,” she promises them, her words calming Enjolras’ concern. “It looks like a flesh wound more than anything else.”

There’s no time for talk with Combeferre just yet, as they help the ship turn around and back toward Nassau for the repairs they’ll need, before the East India captain changes his mind about the retreat. Once they’re set Enjolras finds himself going toward the captain’s quarters, which Valjean has left open to them. He walks inside, shutting the door behind him, and resting his hands on the back of a chair, closing his eyes and breathing in deep. The logic of his choice was clear, he’d readied himself for this unescapable moment, but it did not make it any less difficult.

He’d killed that man and yet he does regret. He feels unsettled and ill, but Courfeyrac is alive. Would that officer have felt something if he’d been given the chance to shoot and kill Courfeyrac if Enjolras hadn’t shot first? Enjolras doesn’t know. Some of the men sailing for East India and the Royal Navy do so out of need for employment, a way to feed their families, and they’re tossed into the battles of rich and powerful men, bound in obedience to their captains, who are like kings. Perhaps men like that did suffer feelings like this at watching a human life fade away in front of them. Sometimes those men jumped ship and joined them. But other men, men who rose through the ranks, defending the way of things, would just as rather see men like him dead. In battles like this, there is no way to tell the difference, because their weapons still stab and fire just the same, their ships still carry human beings as cargo.

 _Pirate scum_ , he’d heard one of the officers say.

Something about those words send him back to the few days before they’d run away. To Javert’s merciless gaze, all affection gone, or at least well hidden. To his father’s fury and simultaneous sadness, half in the shadow and half in the light near the window. To his mother’s heartbreak and his grandfather’s cruelty. To the slaves all chained together in the hold of his father’s ship, to his own bruised face and Combeferre’s shaking hands, all of Michel’s sins laid bare. He thinks of joining this crew, of the ease and the affection and the laughter. The idea that they were doing something. That this, perhaps, was home. That they were free and might make others so. He’d long ago taken to heart that sometimes breaking the law was the only way to change things. That the violence of their society necessitated violence on his part; he knows he can take on that burden. But it does not make his face turn less pale or make his heart feel less torn asunder.

 _Necessity_ , his mind whispers. _Or Courfeyrac would be dead._

He hears the door open behind him, and knows it’s Combeferre without even looking.

“Rene,” he says, his voice full of a love Enjolras isn’t certain he can handle right now. “There you are.”

He doesn’t answer, instead feeling Combeferre’s hand on his shoulder, carefully turning him around.

“Are you all right?” Combeferre asks, searching his face.

“I’m uninjured,” Enjolras replies, knowing that’s not what Combeferre meant.

“I know that,” Combeferre says, squeezing his shoulder. “I asked if you were all right.”

“I’m not sure how to answer,” Enjolras says, honest, but he sees no judgement in Combeferre’s eyes, no reprimand. Perhaps he is harsher on himself than Combeferre could ever be, but it has always been Combeferre’s thoughts and opinions that mattered to him more than anyone else’s, even when they disagreed.

“Why did you shoot?” Combeferre asks.

“Because Courfeyrac…”

“I know _why_ you shot,” Combeferre specifies, holding up a hand. “I meant why did you shoot first? I was closer. You saw me.”

“I didn’t want you to have to take that man’s life,” Enjolras says. “I simply…I couldn’t bear to watch it. You are an excellent, capable sailor and your aim cannot be matched by many. But I know…I know you prefer steering the ship to the fighting. That you’d rather chart the way and measure our path by the stars instead of pulling out your gun. We could never find our way without people like you, you who see the path forward so well. Literally and figuratively.”

“Rene,” Combeferre admonishes, but he’s gentle. “You see a future ablaze with light. Where is this coming from?”

“And is my willingness to do whatever it takes a part of that future?” Enjolras asks, hearing the crack in his own voice, his eighteen years suddenly seeming like a hundred. “There is a line, somewhere, and I fear I will cross it in my determination. Because these men we fight, they cross the line daily, encouraging this human suffering all around us.”

“Courfeyrac might be dead if you hadn’t shot,” Combeferre emphasizes. “You have seen Valjean and Fantine take on this same burden before, when there not a choice. It pained them as it pains you now.”

“I know,” Enjolras whispers, trying to turn away, but Combeferre won’t let go, pulling him into an embrace instead, which Enjolras returns after a moment. When he pulls back, his hands rest in Combeferre’s. “The good must be innocent," Enjolras says. "You have said that to me. And I...I didn't want you to have to break that. Not yet. I know that you are fully aware of what we have committed ourselves to since we joined Valjean I only…I didn’t want you to have to take this piece. Not yet."

"My friend,” Combeferre replies, eyes growing moist behind his spectacles. “I _do_ wish the good could be innocent. And I believe someday perhaps that will be true. I believe that progress is made in a myriad of ways. But did you not say to me that same day, that we do not yet have the privilege of that innocence? We live in a violent society and we are left with no choice but to be violent in return sometimes?"

"Yes," Enjolras answers. "But I also have learned from you, from Valjean, that violence should arise out of necessity. That there are many ways to make change.”

"And I have learned from you," Combeferre says. "But we both believe that what we do now will pave the way for a society where such violence is not necessary. Where new tactics may take it’s place."

Enjolras smiles, pensive, but does not answer.

"You do not believe yourself to be good?" Combeferre asks.

"Perhaps I am," Enjolras says, looking up. "But I have never been innocent. The stains and sins of my family are too much."

"Those are not your sins," Combeferre insists.

"You think too much of me."

"I only know you," Combeferre argues. "None of us are innocent, Rene. But we are doing good, and that makes a difference to who we are. The people we fight against only think they are good, and that it requires no action. That it requires no change, only obedience to the system in place.”

“I do not want to be my father,” Enjolras finally admits, voice huskier than he likes. “When he lost yours, he finally lost his way entirely. He and I are on different sides, but sometimes I fear I see the future as it could be so clearly that I lose my way in getting there. And if I lost you, would something similar happen to me?”

“You won’t,” Combeferre says, firm. “And you could not be your father. There is courage in you he doesn’t possess or at least cannot find. But I promise you that if I ever think you’ve lost your way, I’ll pull you back. Have I ever kept it from you when I disagreed?”

“No,” Enjolras admits, a smile sneaking through. “We made that vow to one another long ago.”

“So we did,” Combeferre agrees. “I need you to believe me.”

"I do, my friend," Enjolras says, squeezing Combeferre's hand. "I promise. You are able to help me sort my mind out better than anyone else."

"Well," Combeferre says with a wry smile. "I consider it my specialty. Along with navigation and my excellent aim. And so you know, I would feel lost without you, as well. You push me forward, and your hope adds to mine when I feel as if it might run dry. You are unflappable, as Courfeyrac might say."

Enjolras laughs, a soft sound that cuts through the melancholy.

"We should go see if we're allowed to see Courfeyrac," he answers. “He’ll be wondering where we’ve gotten to.”

“So he will,” Combeferre says. “Let’s go find him.”

They make their way toward the surgeon’s quarters knocking on the door and entering upon hearing Mullin’s deep voice calling out.

“Well there you are,” Courfeyrac says, looking none the worse for the wear other than the bandage wrapped around his right thigh, white material already reddened with blood. “What if I’d had to have my leg amputated, hmmm? And you took all this time.”

“Lucky it was just a flesh wound then,” Combeferre says, raising his eyebrows. “How’s it look, sir?” he asks Mullins, who shakes his head fondly at the three of them.

“Not too deep,” he answers. “But long. It’ll need changing fairly often, but as you’ve been learning some about that from me, I’ll let you tend to that, Combeferre.” He shakes his head, trying very hard not to smile at Courfeyrac. “Perhaps he’ll twitch less with you.”

“I did not twitch,” Courfeyrac says. “It hurt, is all.”

“Well you got sliced with a cutlass,” Mullins says. “So I expect it did. What will you do if the next surgeon isn’t so kindly as me?”

“Are you thinking of leaving the crew?” Enjolras asks, surprised.

“In a couple of years, perhaps,” Mullins answers. “As soon as I know the captain’s got a solid replacement so you’re not going without. Men with this training are hard to come by, though. We need more men jumping ship with naval training.”

“Indeed my good man,” Courfeyrac says, clapping him on the back. “Am I free to go then?”

“You are,” Mullins answers. “But no running about. Rest.”

“As you command my good sir,” Courfeyrac answers, saluting the older man.

Enjolras and Combeferre help him down, heading toward the deck and sitting down just as the sunset starts casting its first shadows.

“Thank you, Rene,” Courfeyrac says, all teasing vanished now, though his green eyes retain their usual base level of merriment. “You saved my life.”

“I didn’t,” Enjolras tries.

“You did,” Courfeyrac insists, serious. “I’m sure given our line of work, I’ll have the chance to return the favor. But nevertheless. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Enjolras says, feeling his heart still as Courfeyrac leans his head on his shoulder. “But you saved me plenty of times in various ways, including when we first met, in fact. From that dreadful party.”

“Damn right,” Courfeyrac says. “It was a dreadful party.”

“You’re getting even better with the dirk,” Enjolras says. “A natural, I’d say.”

“Fantine is an excellent teacher,” Courfeyrac answers. “The best.”

“That she is,” they hear Cosette say as she approaches with Feuilly, both sitting down next to them. “Though I admit I’m a bit biased.”

They all chuckle, and Feuilly sits next to Enjolras, covering Enjolras’ hand with his own briefly, silent concern in his eyes. Enjolras squeezes it, letting Feuilly know he’s all right. Across the way Valjean and Fantine stand together, talking in lowered voices and small smiles, Fantine no doubt convincing Valjean that they did the best they could today, that getting away had been enough. Enjolras’ heart rests a little heavier in his chest, and he cannot quite chase away the image of the blood seeping across the officer’s uniform from his mind, but as he sits here with his friends, the sun setting their faces aglow, hope settles down in his soul, never chased away.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea near the coast of Nassau. 1709.**

Valjean feels a chill go up his spine before Cosette, finally allowed up in the crow's nest as she wished, spots the ship headed toward them. 

"Uncle Jean?" Feuilly asks, putting a hand on Valjean's shoulder when he notices him visibly tense. 

"Royal Navy ship approaching!" Cosette calls down before Valjean can answer. 

"They might not stop us," Feuilly says, and Valjean reaches up, putting his hand over Feuilly's, which still rests on his shoulder. "We're flying the French flag."

"You know as well as I that the English navy has no love of the French," Valjean says. "They sail too close, they'll see us, and they'll know. That's a Man-of-War."

"The news we heard of the force the British Royal Navy's formed with East India," Feuilly says softly. "They use those ships."

"Precisely," Valjean says. 

"What the hell are they doing this close to the coast of Nassau?" Fantine asks, coming up behind them. "They never come near. What kind of risk are they trying to take? Who would do this?"

And then, Valjean's mind stops for a moment, the pieces falling together. 

"Javert," he says. "Javert would.” He stops, eyes darting around the deck crew, who hovers, waiting for instructions as they spot the naval ship. "Where are Rene, Frantz, and Auden?"

"Valjean you can't know for sure it's him," Fantine says, firm but gentle. "They're three of our best, we can't just..."

"It's him, Fantine," Valjean says, turning toward her. "Who else would even dare come this close?"

"Can we outrun them?" Fantine asks. "Head back to Nassau?"

"Not that quickly," Valjean answers. "It would just distract us from the fight, if it comes."

Fantine pauses, searching his face, a decision forming in her eyes. 

"They need to go below with Cosette," she says. "They won't like it."

"They'll have to," Valjean says, grim. "I have no doubt one day that Javert will figure out they're with us, but I want it put off as long as possible." He turns to Feuilly, who responds before Valjean can even ask his question. 

"I'll go with them," he says. "I'll make sure they stay."

"I know Rene in particular will not like it," Valjean says. "Not that they make a habit of defying commands given in battle but this...this is out of my worry for them personally and rather than just their captain, and I feel they might be more willing to listen to you."

"I understand," Feuilly says. 

Just as he turns to go, the mentioned three young men appear at their shoulders. 

"A Royal Navy ship," Combeferre says, already catching on. "A Man-of-War."

"I need the three of you to go below with Cosette," Valjean says, already seeing Courfeyrac open his mouth in protest. 

"Valjean," he argues. "You'll need all the help you can get with this, if they stop us."

Valjean opens his mouth to respond, but hears Enjolras' voice instead. 

"You think it's Javert, don't you?" he asks, remarkably calm, but there's a storm in his eyes, tossing and crashing about. 

"I'm not sure who else would come this close to Nassau," Valjean answers. "They know full well other ships have been attacked and some ruined here, given the pirate stronghold. If they stop us and it turns out it's not Javert, than you may come above. But not until you hear my explicit word. I don't care what you hear."

"Valjean," Enjolras protests. "What if..." 

"I will not repeat myself," Valjean says, sounding harsher than he means to. He shakes it out, looking back at the boys. "The three of you are very skilled, growing more so every day, this is not my doubting that. But you must allow me to protect you in this instance, do you understand? I will not take this risk if there is anything I can do to prevent it."

All three of them nod, and Valjean offers them a smile. 

"Jahni is going with you," Valjean adds. "I'd hope that might compel you to stay there. Besides, if Javert is the one, I don't want him knowing Jahni's connection to me, it will only put him at more risk. Now go. Stay in the hold."

With one more glance but not a word, they go, collecting Cosette on their way and leaving only Fantine standing by Valjean's side. 

"Remain as normal," Valjean calls out to the crew. "Simmons, ready the cannons in case they stop us and engage. Load the chain shot, as much as we have. Fauchelevent?" he says, spotting the older man nearby. 

"Captain?" he asks, coming over. 

"If you could do me a service and keep an eye on the entrance to the hold, gather a few others to do the same," Valjean asks. "I'm afraid Commander Javert may be on this ship. I do not want him finding Rene, Frantz, or Auden. Or Cosette or Jahni."

"I will protect it with my life," Fauchelevent says. 

"The chain shot," Fantine says, his own plan unfolding in her mind. "You want to do as much damage to that ship as possible."

"I usually hesitate to leave ships utterly stranded," Valjean says. "But you know the Royal Navy is a different matter. Besides, here they're close enough to Andros to row there, and even sail a very damaged man-of-war. But we have to do what we must to get away back to Nassau."

"You don't believe he'd follow us there?" Fantine asks, concern threading through her voice. "If it is Javert?"

"He would not be such a fool," Valjean says. "Not with a single ship. Even if their East India compatriots were with them they'd have to have an armada. They’d rather pick us off ship by ship than attack us all at once near Nassau. At least for now."

Fantine nods, and they watch as the ship moves closer. As it approaches, she rests one hand on the hilt of her dagger, the other wrapping itself around Valjean's wrist. Valjean has not been this anxious over a sea engagement since the very first one he participated in with Myriel. As the ship gets closer, now almost directly beside them, he feels his heart thud against his chest. 

Then, he hears the gunfire, a single bullet whizzing through the air and lodging into the rail and splintering the wood. He stares at it for a moment, then raises his eyes, the other ship close enough to make out figures on the other side. First he sees an Admiral in full Royal Navy dress.

Beside him, shouting out orders, is Javert.

“I’m going over to the ship,” Valjean says. “Send up a smoke signal from the crow’s nest if you can, they’ll be able to see it on Nassau, perhaps someone will come to our aid.”

“Valjean, _no_ ,” Fantine presses. “You go over there you might not come back.”

“I will,” Valjean assures her. “This keeps Javert off this ship as long as possible. I leave the ship in your command.”

Fantine huffs but embraces him quickly as the ship comes right alongside their own, naval sailors poised to jump over. Valjean waits for just the right moment, then catches his grappling hook onto the other ship’s rail, jumping over and onto the deck, taking a moment to gain his footing on the slippery wood.

Javert waits for him.

“What calls you away from commanding your ship, _Captain Fauchelevent_?” Javert spits, drawing his sword. “Something you don’t want me to see?”

“I’m sure there’s plenty,” Valjean answers. “Stolen goods, escaped slaves, fugitives, probably. I just wanted to engage you myself.”

“I knew it was you Valjean,” Javert answers. “All these years, when I heard stories of you and your slave woman quartermaster.”

“Fantine,” Valjean says. “Her _name_ is Fantine. I heard of you as well. Rising up through the ranks of East India and finally joining the British Royal Navy.”

“You certainly keep an ear to the ground,” Javert growls.

 “You are making a name for yourself,” Valjean answers. “And I knew you’d come looking for me.”

“You are a fool,” Javert says, unsheathing his sword, and Valjean responds in kind. “Even going as far to steal from East India ships.”

Their swords cross for the first time, the clang of metal on metal sounding something like fate.

“Going so far as to steal from Captain Michel Enjolras’ ship in Port Royal,” Javert says, his moves as precise as Enjolras mentioned. For a moment Valjean sees the swordsmanship tutor in Javert; he grips the sword the same way Enjolras does, moves his feet just like Enjolras does, but faster, the very thing the younger man’s worked to improve, and does, every day. Though Javert, Valjean thinks, is less willing to take risks that might serve him well in unforeseen situations. At nineteen, Enjolras’ skills are already formidable, partly in thanks to the man he tangles with now.

 _Try and slide your feet instead of stepping_ , Valjean hears himself say, thinking Javert might have said the same, once. _It keeps you grounded and balanced better._

 “You knew I was sailing under his command, didn’t you?”

“I did not choose a target simply because you were on the crew, Javert,” Valjean says. “I did not even, at the time, know I was stealing from Michel Enjolras. I go where my crew decides, by their votes.”

“The page from the ship’s log,” Javert says, stepping closer and pushing his sword against Valjean’s, failing to do damage. “That’s why it was missing. That’s when you found out.”

Valjean doesn’t answer and they meet each other step for step, move for move, until Javert stops, holding his sword in a defensive stance in front of him, something coming loose in his expression, letting go just slightly of his control.

“You are hiding something from me, Valjean,” he says, insistent.

“We are fighting this battle because I am a pirate and you are a member of the British Royal Navy,” Valjean says. “Hiding things is inevitable. But your paranoia is too great. I do nothing simply because it would aggravate you. My cause is more than that.”

“Your cause,” Javert spits. “Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor, isn’t it? Making your career as a thief sound high and mighty won’t change what you are, Valjean. It won’t change that you flout every law and custom in existence. It won’t change that you are an immoral, lawless scoundrel, and I will see you sent to the gallows for it as is befitting any murderous pirate wretch.”

“Tell me, Javert,” Valjean says. “Are you so desperate to find me because you believe it’s right, or because you’d prefer to erase this bad mark on your record?”

At this Javert swings again, some of his precision gone in the storm of rage Valjean sees flickering in his eyes. His sword goes around in a circle and Valjean ducks, Javert’s sword flying into the mast. A haze of smoke fills the air around him, and he chances a glance at the _Misericorde_ ; the masts are still standing, though a few smaller sails are ripped, and wood is splattered from the hit of the cannons. The Man-of-War isn’t much better, but they need a way out. Valjean takes advantage of Javert’s momentary weak stance, pushing down against his sword.

“I heard word of a blond brat who managed a small injury to an East India Captain,” Javert says, coming back around to the subject Valjean least desires, but he arranges his face as if it’s etched in stone. “I’m sure you heard of Captain Enjolras’ son who went missing. With two others. You haven’t…seen him around your pirate hive on Nassau, have you?”

Javert speaks as if tempting Valjean into a trap, and just like that night he and Fantine escaped, Valjean sees Javert’s ability for sensing things before there’s even concrete evidence.

“No,” Valjean says, firm. “Besides, I wouldn’t associate with the son of an East India captain,” he lies. “I wouldn’t put my sailors at such a risk. The son of a man like that could be a spy for all I know. As well as anyone associated with him.”

“And you think of yourself as such an egalitarian,” Javert mocks.

Valjean lunges toward Javert with his sword as a distraction from the line of conversation, their blades meeting again, but Valjean’s foot slips on a patch of particularly wet deck, and Javert’s sword swipes across his forearm. Valjean backs up, the wound stinging, but he doesn’t let go of his sword, taking a defensive stance.

“Who taught you to use a sword, Valjean?” Javert asks. “When I knew you it certainly wasn’t a skill you possessed.”

“A good man taught me,” Valjean answers. “A better man than either you or me.”

“Oh I’m _certain_ ,” Javert says, sarcasm layered up on the last word. “I…”

He trails off, and Valjean watches his eyes widen in shock. He turns his head, still holding his sword in front of him, and sees another ship coming toward them, black flag raised.

“You cannot hope to win against two ships,” Valjean says, turning back around to Javert, whose eyes have narrowed now. “I suggest you tell your admiral to retreat.”

As the words leave his mouth, chain shot flies through the air, smashing into the foremast and damaging it, though it doesn’t fall.

“I’m going back to my ship,” Valjean says, backing up but holding his sword up in case Javert attacks again. “I suggest you _go_.”

Javert stares at him, his perfect stance wavering.

“You…” he uncharacteristically stutters, his words no longer crisp or precise, even in their anger. “You aren’t going to command the destruction of my ship? You…you could try and kill me here, if you wished.”

“It’s not what I do,” Valjean responds, staring Javert down and sensing the crack in his foundation he’s always trying to hide.

“You’re a pirate,” Javert insists, sounding more like the twenty-year-old young man Valjean knew than a man now somewhere in his thirties.

“So I am,” Valjean replies, seeing, for just a moment, the person who cared about the young men hiding below the deck of his ship. He’s gone soon after, replaced with a naval officer with a glare of steel, the snarl in his voice like a wolf. “Goodbye, Javert. I know you’ll make sure we meet again.”

“Valjean!” Javert calls out, his voice drowned out in the sound of the other pirate ship firing and the admiral calling out the retreat, the smoke from the gunfire making Valjean’s eyes water. He throws his grappling hook across and jumps back over to the Misericorde, the hoard of naval sailors scarcely paying him any attention as they race to make sail with their damaged ship. He looks up recognizing the other pirate vessel; it belongs to Captain Robins, a young man and former prisoner like himself he’d met on Myriel’s ship. Pirates certainly had squabbles amongst themselves, but their mutual enmity for any navy, especially the British Royal Navy, banded them together. Common cause, Valjean knows, also draws many to help one another, even though there are outliers.

“Valjean,” Fantine says, rushing up to him. “You’re hurt.”

“Just a flesh wound,” Valjean replies. “I’ll have Mullins take a look, I promise.”

“It looks like the naval ship is retreating,” Fantine says. “They might just be able to limp to Andros. The men defending the hold where Cosette and the boys are kept their stance.”

“Good,” Valjean says, feeling a pinch of relief flood through him. “Have someone signal to Captain Robins to cease fire when the ship gets clear. We need to focus on repairing those sails and getting back to Nassau. It’s a good thing we’re close.”

Fantine nods, dashing off and holding her questions about the confrontation with Javert. When the smoke clears, some of Captain Robins’ men come and help begin repairs on the ship as they sail back toward Nassau. He gazes around at his ship, feeling its broken wood and ripped sails as wounds in his own heart. This ship is his home, and it’s been injured.

“Thank you, Robins,” Valjean says when the other man approaches, reaching out and clasping his hand. “I’m not sure how we would have held up otherwise.”

“You were holding your own,” Robins says, grinning. “I can’t believe they’d come this close to the shoreline of Nassau. “They retreated quickly, even with that Man-of-War.”

“I let the second in command know they couldn’t win against two of us,” Valjean answers. “And his admiral seemed to feel the same way.”

“Wise of them,” Robins answers.

Valjean’s about to respond when he hears footsteps behind him, turning to see Cosette, Feuilly, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac running toward him, finally released from the hold.

“Papa!” Cosette exclaims, taking his arm without care for the chaos of the ship around her. “You’re hurt.”

Valjean smiles at how much she sounds like her mother, their words a reflection of one another’s.

“Papa,” she repeats, sighing in frustration. “Why are you smiling? You’re bleeding.”

“Nothing,” Valjean says. “Just a small wound from Javert’s sword.”

“You need Mullins to see to it,” Feuilly says, serious, and Valjean feels a rush of affection for his nephew. “We can take care of getting the ship back to Nassau.”

“We certainly can,” Fantine says, coming up behind him. “I…”

She trails off as she watches Enjolras gaze at Valjean’s wound, quietly removing himself from the group and going below. Valjean’s eyes follow hers, and then meet her gaze.

“You should go after him,” Fantine says. “I’ll get some bandages from Mullins and bring them to you.”

“Are you sure I should go?” Valjean asks, trying to put the pieces together. “I’m sure Javert getting this close…”

“He wants to talk to you, I think,” Fantine, stopping him in the middle of his stream of words. “Or well. He will when he realized he wants to talk. Go. I’ll be right behind you after I get the bandages and see to the ship a bit.”

Valjean nods, smiling in reassurance at Combeferre and Courfeyrac as he goes, hearing Fantine ushering them over with Cosette to help Feuilly with some of the damaged rigging. He goes below, finding Enjolras by the hammocks. He’d long ago tried convincing Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac into some of the quarters usually reserved for sailors higher up the chain, but they’d refused, saying that he’d already given them room in his house on Nassau.

“Rene?” Valjean asks, gentle.

Enjolras looks up from his place sitting on the hammock, upset swirling in his eyes though he tries keeping his expression stoic.

“Sir,” he says, soft. Not Valjean, but _sir_. A callback to his earliest weeks on the ship.

As has become common practice between them over the past few years since Enjolras learned to trust him, Valjean reaches out, putting a hand on the top of Enjolras’ arm. Enjolras, however, pulls out of his grip, stepping away from the hammock and turning away from Valjean.

“Javert hurt you,” Enjolras says, voice steady still. “He could have killed you.”

“It’s a small wound,” Valjean responds. “And he didn’t kill me. I’m still here, not too worse for the wear.”

“My being here puts you, all of you in danger,” Enjolras says, determined as he turns back around.

“Son,” Valjean says. “Javert has been after Fantine and me for years. Whether or not you were here, he’d still have pursued me. He doesn’t even know you’re on board, though I think he has suspicions.”

“But I’ve put an extra target on your back,” Enjolras argues. “If I went, that wouldn’t be true. If I just stayed on Nassau instead of sailing, then maybe…”

“Rene, come now,” Valjean interrupts.

"I don't belong here," Enjolras says, sudden, as if he’s come up with the logical solution. Once again, Valjean wonders how he ended up with this brood of young ones who look to him. He’s not always sure how he should react, he only knows he loves them. In what seems like another life, he never thought he’d have a family again. "People like me, like my family, we have only done terrible things to people like you. We’ve participated in something that makes money off the backs of selling human beings as cargo, of pillaging other people’s land, of keeping rigid rules in place that makes the poor poorer and the rich only buried in more wealth.”

"We are your family now," Valjean says, calm. He knows this is about the near miss with Javert. He knows this is about the past coming and slapping them in the face. “You have not committed your father’s sins. Or Javert’s or your grandfather’s.”

Enjolras ignores him.

"I grew up in a mansion,” he continues. “I had tutors and clothing made of the finest materials. I never went hungry."

"That is not strictly true, from what you've said about your grandfather."

Enjolras scoffs.

"It is not the same as things so many men and women on this ship have experienced. I was warm, every night. I had everything.”

"You did have a great deal of advantages and privileges in life,” Valjean answers. “That goes without saying. You were of wealth, you are white. You are male and from a powerful family. You were not subjected to the horrors of being a slave or being treated as less than human because of your skin or your sex or your lack of money. Society smiled on you. But that does not mean you did not have terrible things happen to you. When I found the three of you, all of you were desperately thin, your clothes were all but rags, no matter how fine they might have once been. You were not playing games if you needed to get away from something so badly that you ended up in that state. Tell me why you ran away."

Enjolras gapes at him, a flash of frustration in his eyes.

"You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

There’s silence for a moment, the only noise the rocking of the ship and Enjolras’ hindered breathing, a sign he’s losing the tight grip he keeps on his own emotions, a trait Valjean’s seen in Jahni and also in himself. Sometimes beneath the fervor and zest for life, beneath the youthful face, Valjean can see the years in Enjolras’ eyes, even if he’s just nineteen.

"Because my father was transporting slaves!" Enjolras finally shouts, voice breaking and shattering into pieces across the wood. "I saw them, stacked together worse than animals, blood and mucus and excrement everywhere and I couldn't…I’ll never forget Frantz’s face. And he threatened to separate us, something he swore he’d never do."

Enjolras' voice halts and tears fill his eyes. He turns away, but Valjean tries again, seizing him lightly by the top of his arms, careful to avoid grasping his forearm.

"You thought you might bleed to death with the pain of how much it hurt to imagine that happening to your dearest friend."

" _Yes_ ," Enjolras breathes, the sound sharp, ragged and coming in small gasps. "To him...to anyone."

"And you think that kind of compassion, that kind of love means nothing? It does not erase the privileges you have, Rene, but nor does it darken you with the sins of your father or Javert or your grandfather. You are here, fighting against those things when you could have lived your life in wealth and comfort. Why else did you run away?"

"That was why..."

"Why. Else."

Enjolras meets his eyes, holding the gaze for a moment as his breathing calms and he returns slowly to himself.

"My grandfather was striking me,” Enjolras says, voice crackling with congestion. “He was leaving bruises and scars. My father and Javert, they did nothing. My mother, she tried, but they just ignored her. My grandfather said he might press charges when Frantz interfered."

"It was abuse, Rene,” Valjean says, gentle. “But this family, _our_ family, does not come with requirements. It is a safe haven for anyone who wishes it. It is for anyone who is looking for a place to call home. Who is looking to fight back. And are those not things you hold dear?"

Enjolras nods, though his response is cut off by the sound of footsteps coming near, Fantine tentatively stepping inside, worry in her eyes.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

Valjean looks at Enjolras who smiles just a tad in response. Fantine looks between them, reading the situation.

“I got the bandages and the ointment from Mullins,” she says. “He says it probably just needs a dab and some careful wrapping, and to let him take a look when we’re docked.” She looks at Enjolras, who looks back, swiping at his eyes and then twisting his fingers in front of him. “Would you like to do the honors, Rene?”

“I…of course,” Enjolras answers, accepting the bandages and the ointment from her.

“Well then,” she says. “Now that you’re in capable hands, Valjean, I’ll go see to the final few things before we dock.”

She presses a light kiss to Enjolras’ forehead, a blush tinting his cheeks, but he allows it, smiling at her before turning away and gesturing for Valjean to hold his hand out.

“See there?” Valjean says as Enjolras examines the cut. “It’s not so bad. And I’m in excellent hands.”

Enjolras still looks grave but his smile widens, and Valjean breathes an internal sigh of relief. Still, he cannot forget the sheer persistence in Javert’s eyes and he knows that when they meet again, and when the day comes and he discovers Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are aboard his ship, something will explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha, you were worried about Javert, weren't you? See you next time with what I'm sure everyone has been waiting for, all the Amis meeting!


	13. Book II (Coming Together): Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, all the Amis come together. Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly run into Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire, who happen to be stowing away on a ship they're robbing in the night. Several months later, Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Gavroche arrive in Nassau, and Bahorel seeks Valjean out, having heard that he's in need of an assistant for his master gunner. The months pass and they all grow closer, forming an even larger pirate family aboard the Misericorde. 
> 
> (Complete with Sea Ghost Stories from Jean Prouvaire)

**Book II (Coming Together): Part 4**

**Bermuda. March 1710.**

Grantaire jolts awake at the sound of feet on the deck above them, the wood giving an ominous creak. 

"What was that?" Joly asks, voice hoarse with sleep. "I thought the crew was gone on shore except for the men on the watch."

"They were," said Bossuet, blinking and looking blearily at the other two. "Perhaps some of them have come back. It's probably nothing."

"Remind me again why we didn't disembark yet?" Joly asks. 

"Not a port close enough to Nassau," Grantaire answers, rubbing his eyes. "And not a port known for pirates sneaking in undercover. We have to find a pirate ship to get to Nassau. Or at least a privateer ship going rogue."

The footsteps grow closer, and as far as Grantaire can tell, it sounds like three sets. 

"They're getting closer," says Joly, looking concerned. "And if they find us here?"

"Perhaps they'll just think we're part of the crew," Grantaire shrugs. "It's a pretty big merchant ship. And they'll just toss us off, this isn't East India."

"I think maybe they'll be suspicious if they find us in the hold," Bossuet says with a chuckle. "It's not exactly a place people go to sleep, among boxes of sugar and cotton."

"True," Grantaire admits. "Well, we did break out of jail before. Maybe our luck will hold."

"The door," Joly whispers, and Grantaire turns, hearing voices. Three voices, if his ears don’t mislead him.

"Well shit," Grantaire says. 

"My thoughts exactly my good man," Bossuet replies. 

"We've been so lucky too," Joly says, lowering his voice even further and Grantaire thinks that he has a strange talent for whispering. "Two months on the run trying to get to Nassau and not caught yet. Escaped from jail and everything with East India and the British Navy on our tail!"

"I wouldn't say on our tail," Grantaire argues. "I don't think we're worth that to them."

"Well, all the great adventurers find their way out of scrapes like this," Joly points out. "Perhaps we will too."

"You think of us as great adventurers?" Bossuet asks, and they hear the entrance opening, Grantaire's heart rapidly quickening in his chest out of anticipation. 

"Certainly," Joly says. 

Three figures enter the hold, and Grantaire studies them a moment before they notice them among the cargo. The first one at least partly of African descent, with light brown skin, dark eyes, and short, curly black hair. The second is a bit shorter than the first, but still tall, less angular and instead more broad shouldered, his dark brown hair tied back with a care, and his green eyes look friendly, even now. Grantaire's eyes catch and remain on the third one, and he’s struck in the chest by something in his eyes that he cannot name. The third boy's hair is blond but tied messily back, pieces spilling from underneath his black hat, and Grantaire thinks he looks familiar, though he cannot place the face. The blond one pulls the sword off his belt like lightning and the other two follow, drawing a pistol and a knife, though it looks more like a defense than any intention to attack.

"Well," the second one with the tidy hair says. "This is unexpected."

“Indeed,” Grantaire says, pulling out the sword they’d swiped from the guard when they escaped jail. The gun they’d stolen was lost a few weeks ago, but Joly and Bossuet scramble up behind him as well.

"What are you doing here?" Grantaire says, trying to play it off, though it’s obvious these three don't belong to crew of this ship, and it’s fairly obvious that they don’t, either. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" the blond one says, his mouth a thin line of confusion. "Sailors don't generally sleep in the hold."

"Perhaps we're minding the cargo," Grantaire says. "You know, pirates and all. Always robbing merchant ships.”

"We're stowaways," Bossuet says cheerily, breaking into the argument. "And you are?"

"Uh," the first one with the glasses says, scratching his nose. "We're..."

"You're pirates aren't you?" Joly says with a grin, catching on. 

"What makes you say that?" the tidy-haired one asks, and Grantaire sees an amused smile slipping onto his face. 

"Well you aren't members of this crew," Grantaire says. "You came straight for the hold, so I assume you’re here to steal, though this is a different strategy than I’ve seen before. You have on some interesting jewelry."

"Is that exclusive to pirates?" the one with spectacles asks, resting his free hand over his hip. 

"Usually," Grantaire answers. 

"Are you really pirates then?" Joly asks, smile bright. "That would be quite handy, we were looking for a way to Nassau."

“You were?” the one with the knife answers, lowering his weapon.

“We were,” Bossuet echoes.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” the blond one asks, lowering his sword too, but still keeping his grasp on the hilt.

“Well,” Joly pipes up, and Grantaire sees the blond one’s serious expression soften at Joly’s smile. “If you must know, I’m an escapee from the French navy. Lesgle helped me escape. Then we met Grantaire in jail. So we haven’t much reason to lie to you.”

“In jail?” the one holding the knife asks, looking impressed.

“Lesgle and I were in for being in the wrong place at the wrong time in a tavern fight, Grantaire was in trouble for stowing away on an East India ship,” Bossuet says. “Besides we told you we wanted to go to Nassau. That’s not exactly something we’d want anyone to know.”

The blond one considers, surveying them each in turn before speaking again.

“We could give you passage to Nassau,” he says after a moment. “If you come with us now.”

“Excellent,” Bossuet says. “We are in your debt.”

“So you _are_ pirates then,” Joly says. “I’ve yet to meet a pirate properly, how excellent.”

“Well here we are,” the one with the knife says, sheathing it once more and putting out his hand. “I’m Auden Courfeyrac, the one with the glasses is Frantz Combeferre, and the serious one with blond hair is Rene Enjolras. And you are?”

“I’m Benoit Lesgles, though these two have started calling me Bossuet,” Bossuet answers. “And my friends here are Elliot Joly and Chema Grantaire. But I admit I’m impressed you’d come here, this place often crawls with British Royal Navy Officers. And shipbuilders who work for them.”

“Wait a moment,” Grantaire says, a memory striking him. “Did you say Enjolras?”

“He did,” the one apparently called Enjolras replies, slow with his words, and Grantaire sees him tense. “Why do you ask?”

“I stowed away on a ship that belonged to a Commodore Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “He and another man, oh, what was his name?” he continues, turning around to Bossuet.

“Commander Javert, I believe,” Bousset answers, frowning when he sees something cloud Enjolras’ eyes, though he stays calm. “British Royal Navy officer.”

“Commodore,” the one called Combeferre mutters, glancing at Enjolras, a shared look in their eyes. “He’s moved up.”

“So has Javert,” Enjolras answers, his voice no more than a murmur.

“Is he your father?” Joly asks, gentle, clearly sensing the sensitivity of the situation. “He…he dropped a missing flyer with your face on it. It looked like it’d been in his pocket for a good while.”

“He is,” Enjolras answers, hesitating before answering, but the focus of the moment returns to his expression. “And you’re quite lucky if you managed an escape from their grasp. But we need to get out of here. If you can help us open some of these boxes open and get things into these bags, we’ll go.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much down here but sugar and cotton,” Bossuet says. “Not really anything you’d want to steal. But I saw the captain take several boxes of coins into his cabin, if you’d like to check there.”

“Thank you, good sir,” Courfeyrac says. “Glad to have made your acquaintance.”

“And us yours,” Bossuet answers. “We’ve been trying to get to Nassau for two months, but have hit bad luck trying to find a ship.”

“Who’s your captain?” Joly asks, eager. “Anyone we’ve heard of?”

“Captain Fauchelevent,” Combeferre answers.

“Really?” Grantaire questions, following behind them as they all exit the hold and head toward the captain’s cabin. “I thought surely he was a legend. Far too good to be true.”

“He’s not,” Enjolras says, turning around and glancing at him.  “He’s as real as you or I.”

They walk quietly across the deserted deck, and Courfeyrac swiftly breaks the lock to the captain’s cabin and they enter, locating the three small boxes of coins badly hidden in the corner, depositing them into the bags they’d brought with them.

“Is this sort of thing normal for pirates?” Joly asks, fascinated. “I thought they simply attacked in open waters, and not sneakily like this.”

“Depends on the pirates,” Enjolras answers, smiling back at Joly. “We do both. Captain Fauchelevent sends out small bands on these missions at night sometimes, stealing when the crew is absent. Most of this we give away to people who need it.”

There’s a drive in Enjolras’ eyes as he speaks, Grantaire notices, a passion not easily quenched, and something about it draws him in.

They're searching for anything else of value in the cabin when they hear voices outside, and steps coming toward them. 

"Ah," Bossuet says, turning at the sound of the noise. "We have company, I believe. My bad luck perhaps, I'm a superstitious sailor's nightmare."

He smiles as he says it, and when Grantaire looks over, Combeferre is reaching into his boot, tossing Joly and Bossuet daggers he’s apparently hidden there.

"Well," Joly says, looking a bit unnerved, but unsheathing the dagger, resolve in his eyes. "This certainly escalated, though you lot are prepared."

"Stay in between us," Enjolras says as voices approach the door. "We'll try and shield you as best we can."

"I know how to use a sword," Grantaire answers, gesturing at the weapon in his hand. "My father was a sailor and a pirate, though I’m sure his technique could’ve used some work. And Bossuet's father was a blacksmith. We know our way around weapons a bit."

"Well then," Enjolras says, looking impressed. "That will make this easier. And you, Joly?"

"I'm a doctor, and a bit more inclined toward healing than maiming," Joly says. "But I had a small bit of combat training in the navy."

"You're a doctor?" Combeferre asks, interest piqued even as he readies his pistol. "I'd love to speak to you about it. Our captain is actually searching for a new medical officer, ours wants to retire to a quieter life."

"Someone's in the captain's cabin!" They hear one of the sailors shout. "The lock's broken."

"We need to run," Enjolras says. "We'll try and fight our way through, but keep running when you can. We need to go down to that hidden grove of trees near here where Feuilly is waiting and then back to the ship and hope they don't follow. Auden, can you take up the back?"

"I can do that my friend," Courfeyrac says, clasping Enjolras' shoulder, and Grantaire can see just from the gestures and the glances that these three are close. 

"All right," Enjolras says. "Let's go."

They burst through the doors, encountering six sailors, mirroring their own number. 

"Pirates!" One of them shouts. "What did you steal, scoundrels?"

"Things others need far more than you'll miss them," Enjolras answers, and Grantaire is intrigued despite himself. The other man reaches out with his sword, Enjolras pushes back with his own, giving the man a kick as he does so, and he goes falling to the deck. Courfeyrac performs a similar move with his dirk, and Combeferre causes a distraction for a third by shooting a bullet just far away enough to miss the man, but enough to cause him to duck. They start running, the other three still chasing them. 

"That was a solid move back there," Grantaire says, keeping his sword poised as he runs. 

"Thank you," Enjolras says, surprised at the conversation. 

"So pray tell how does the son of an East India captain end up as a pirate?" Grantaire asks. "And not only a pirate, but working under a man who's nearly a legend? I mean I've heard this Fauchelevent fellow compared to that old English myth Robin Hood. Going around stealing from the rich, and giving to the poor, overturning slave ships. It's the complete opposite of what you were raised in, and people born to that sort of thing don't often leave it. In fact I'd say people stay firmly within the bounds of what they know, most often unless their circumstance changes, and granted my parents were wealthy, but my father lost his wealth by running into some legal trouble, so it benefitted him to become a pirate, and my mother, maintaining her own personal wealth, went back to Spain. And I doubt they were quite as wealthy as your family, so…."

"We're in the middle of something," Enjolras interrupts, swinging out a bit wildly with his fist and striking the man who comes up beside him in the cheek. He’s shocked but not down, so Grantaire knocks him down with a kick the stomach, holding his sword out in case it doesn’t end there. The man falls to the sand, leaving only two others, but they are persistent. 

"Yes I noticed," Grantaire says picking back up his run, taking in a gulp of air. 

"Do you often monologue while fighting?"

"Bossuet's only known me for two months and says I could speak on anything for an hour if I knew it well and no one stopped me," Grantaire answers. 

"So I see," Enjolras says, watching Bossuet swipe at one of the men's legs, and the man goes tumbling down. Bossuet himself almost goes tumbling as well, but Joly rushes up behind him, slipping a hand around his waist and, holding him up. Enjolras smiles at the gesture.  

There's only one man left, but he knows his odds and falls back, shouting something inaudible. 

"We need to keep going," Enjolras says. “Feuilly’s not far from here, but I think we can walk if we go quickly. We have the advantage of their not knowing which ship is ours.”

They all nod, slowing their stride a bit and catching their breath.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Grantaire says, walking up beside Enjolras. Behind them, Combeferre peppers Joly with questions about his medical training, and Courfeyrac applauds Bossuet on his sword technique before asking if his blacksmith knowledge taught him anything about repairing knives.

“It’s a bit of a personal matter,” Enjolras says, sounding irritated.

“Is it?” Grantaire asks. “You just helped three strangers you met not a half hour ago and offered us passage.”

“You needed assistance,” Enjolras says, sheathing his sword again. “And that explanation is also rather a long story. Why are you so interested?”

“It’s like I said before,” Grantaire replies. “People don’t leave the comfort of their own stations like that. Not often. And you didn’t even do just that, you’re openly fighting against the place from whence you came. It’s not what people do.”

“You have such a dismal view?”

“I’m intrigued by exceptions to the rule,” Grantaire shoots back, though his voice is soft.

Some of the annoyance shakes out of Enjolras’ expression at his tone, and he studies Grantaire a moment before answering, his gaze intent.

“In short, I found my father was transporting slaves,” he answers. “I couldn’t live with it, for a number of reasons.” His eyes flicker briefly over to Combeferre, and Grantaire thinks he can put at least some of the pieces together. “Frantz, Auden, and I came out here and eventually ended up on Nassau and ran into Captain Fauchelevent and Fantine. We’ve been on their crew ever since. You said your father was a pirate?”

“A privateer turned pirate due to a combination of legal troubles and my aristocratic mother divorcing him,” Grantaire explains. “But he wasn’t your sort of pirate.”

“My sort?”

“He didn’t use piracy as some sort of revolution,” Grantaire explains.

“Not all do,” Enjolras says. “But many take part in it.”

“And you believe in that?” Grantaire asks, feeling his pulse quicken.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and there’s not a quaver of doubt in his voice. “You don’t?”

“I think for many it’s simply enough to find a way out of the society that mistreats them and make a life that way,” Grantaire answers. “It’s something else to change the structure of society entirely.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire feels as if his gaze pierces through every part of him. It’s not a threatening look, but curious and intense all wrapped into one. “We’ll fight for those people too.”

It grows quiet between them a moment, the sounds of the other four chattering behind them mixing in with the breeze.

“It looked as if your father had been carrying that missing flyer around with him for a long while,” Grantaire says, testing the waters.

“So your friend said,” Enjolras answers, not looking at Grantaire but continuing forward.

“He looked upset when I asked him about it,” Grantaire replies. “Sensitive. Granted I don’t know him at all, but it’s easy to tell when someone is upset about something. He tried to look stoic, but his eyes, the way he snapped at me, the way that Javert fellow comforted him. It just seemed like they hadn’t finished looking for you.”

“I’m sure they haven’t,” Enjolras answers, the smallest crack in his voice. He clears his throat, erasing the sound.

“Do you suspect they’ll find you?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras answers, still sounding annoyed at the litany of questions, but remains friendly. “You are rather full of questions.”

“I’m simply curious,” Grantaire says, sensing he won’t get the answers he’s seeking today.

“I’m sorry my father and Javert were cruel to you,” Enjolras says, removing his hat for a moment and pushing some of the stray pieces out of his eyes before placing it back on his head. “They must have been charging you with something more than stowing away if you were so compelled to run away.”

“It was to be a piracy charge,” Grantaire replies. “And you know as well as I how that usually ends. With a rope around one’s neck and all things considered, I’d really rather avoid that.”

“I do,” Enjolras says, a layer of anger in his voice now. “I’m glad we were able to help. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather leave more talk of my past for another time.”

“All right,” Grantaire says, heeding him. “But if I might ask, who is that Javert fellow to you? I’d heard of him before I met him, he’s a scourge of piracy in the region. The Wolf of the Caribbean, so he’s called, apparently. He does _look_ a bit like a wolf, all tall and angular with that black hair and narrow gray eyes.”

“He’s a long-time family friend since Frantz and I were children,” Enjolras answers. “It’s…complicated. He’s the one who taught me swordsmanship.”

Enjolras keeps the feeling out of his voice as he speaks about Commander Javert, and though Grantaire doesn’t consider himself an expert on other people, he knows he sees something bubble up in the other man’s eyes at the mention of him. He’d mattered to him, at some point. Perhaps even still.

“I would not have considered him capable of that,” Grantaire says. “So a bit like the she-wolf who raised Romulus and Remus, turned into Lycaon? Well Zeus turned him into a wolf, he didn’t start out that way. And I don’t imagine Commander Javert is busy serving gods the flesh of their sons. Still, lots of wolf imagery to go around. He snarls like one. Though I’m mixing Roman and Greek myths.”

Enjolras furrows his eyebrows, confused, though there’s some understanding in his eyes. “I don’t admit to knowing that second myth you mention.”

“Ah well it’s a bit gruesome,” Grantaire says. “Zeus…”

But he’s cut off by the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice next to him, calling out the name of their friend they’d mentioned earlier.

“Feuilly!” he calls out, pleased at the sight of him. The other man stands a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, one finger fiddling with the end of his dreadlocks, a worried frown on his face.

“You’re _late_ ,” Feuilly says in response. “I was worried you’d been caught.”

“Ah, well,” Combeferre says with a wry grin. “We were.”

“You were?” Feuilly asks, looking curiously at Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire. “Where are they?”

“We took some of them down and lost the others,” Enjolras answers. “We got some coins for our trouble, but we need to get out of here before they realize which ship is ours.”

“I don’t suppose these three are pirate converts from the merchant ship?” Feuilly asks.

“Stowaways!” Courfeyrac says, beaming. “We offered them passage to Nassau, they said they’d been looking for a way there. This is Elliot Joly, Benoit Lesgles, and Chema Grantaire.”

“Jahni Feuilly,” the other man answers, a small smile sliding onto his lips, and Grantaire sees the guarded kindness in his eyes now. “And we can get you to Nassau. Where did you come from?”

“Joly here is a French navy escapee,” Bossuet explains, reaching out and shaking Feuilly’s hand. “I’m a blacksmith turned tavern worker who met him on Saint-Lucia. Then we met Grantaire in Kingston while, unfortunately, in jail.”

“It happens to the best of us,” Feuilly quips, reaching out and shaking Joly and Grantaire’s hands in turn.

“Joly is a doctor,” Courfeyrac offers. “And I think Frantz has him half-signed onto the crew already.”

“Well Mullins _is_ looking for a replacement,” Combeferre says, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “And it’s rare to find people with this skill set.”

“And you want to learn from him,” Courfeyrac adds.

“I don’t like to pass up opportunities,” Combeferre insists, and Grantaire watches deep affection spread through Enjolras’ eyes as he watches them banter.

“Oh I’d be very amenable to teaching you whatever you’d like to know!” Joly exclaims, pleased. “Granted I don’t know what sort of teacher I’d make, but I’m sure there’s a great deal I’d need to learn, on a pirate ship. I’d love to see what sailing on one is like. That is, if Bossuet and Grantaire are on board with the idea.”

At this, Bossuet snorts in laughter, and Grantaire rolls his eyes, though he cannot help but laugh in turn.

“On board!” Bossuet crows. “Sea humor.”

To Grantaire’s surprise a laugh bursts out of Enjolras, far more undignified a sound than he expected, and Combeferre catches the sentiment, chuckling at the sound of his friend’s amusement.

“Oh,” says Courfeyrac. “Even I have the dignity not to laugh at that.”

This draws laughter from everyone, and they walk briskly toward the docks, stepping onto a large ship Grantaire can’t help but admire. A French flag flies from the mast, an old trick Grantaire knows well, allowing pirates to hide in plain sight.

“You’re _late_ ,” an exceedingly tall, broad-shouldered man with long, tied-back dreadlocks says in greeting, though he doesn’t look angry, just concerned. He must be Captain Fauchelevent, Grantaire thinks, and there’s a resemblance in his face to Feuilly. There’s a strong hint of a native Caribbean accent in his reprimand. A woman stands beside him, looking relieved, her arm around a girl with friendly, eager eyes, the breeze blowing some of her long curls out of the ribbon holding them back.

“We ran into some trouble,” Enjolras explains. “Some of the sailors returned while we were aboard. But we got some of the things we were looking for.” He gestures at the bags that he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac carry.

“I shouldn’t have sent you off on your own yet,” Captain Fauchelevent says, surveying them. “It was too soon.”

“But they returned with the desired items and all in one piece,” the woman says. “And your being there wouldn’t have stopped the men from showing up. I think they did an excellent job.”

She looks at the man pointedly and he looks back, bewildered, before realizing himself.

“Oh no,” he says, looking back at them in apology. “You did very well, I only…”

“Worry,” Feuilly says, smiling and squeezing Captain Fauchelevent’s forearm. “Well no need here, but we should probably get out of here as quickly as we can, to be safe. We lost the men who followed us, but still.”

“Yes,” Captain Fauchelevent answers. “No need to take the risk and remain.” His eyes land on Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire now. “And who are your friends?”

“We were stowaways on the merchant ship, Captain Fauchelevent,” Bossuet explains. “Enjolras told us you might be able to give us passage to Nassau. We’ve been looking for a way there for a few months.”

“Have you now?” Captain Fauchelevent asks, looking serious, but the twitching of his lips gives him away.

“My friend Joly here is an escapee from the French Navy,” Bossuet continues. “And all three of us escaped East India and the British Royal Navy’s hold in Jamaica. Grantaire here was in a spot of trouble with them.”

“My father and Javert,” Enjolras adds, and Valjean frowns, eyes lingering with concern on Enjolras for a few seconds.

“The world is _exceedingly_ small,” Fantine says with a bit of a sigh. “Sometimes I believe that Javert at least, has a twin.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you sir,” Joly says, enthused. “I’ve heard stories of you often, particularly in the year since I left the navy.”

“You may call me Valjean,” Captain Fauchelevent says. “No need for the sir.”

“Valjean?” Grantaire asks.

“Jean Valjean,” Valjean answers. “It’s my true name, taken in effort to keep a particular man from discovering my identity. Javert, in fact. But he has since figured it out, unfortunately. But the world still knows me as Fauchelevent. I’d largely prefer to keep it that way. And this is Fantine, my quartermaster, and Cosette, her daughter,” Valjean says, gesturing at the two women next to him.

He turns back toward Joly, a question in his eyes. “You left the French Navy? They didn’t treat you well?”

“No,” Joly says, and Grantaire sees the painful memories in his eyes. Grantaire’s only known Joly a short while, but he feels anger burn in the pit of his stomach at the idea of people mistreating him. He’d heard the story of Bossuet helping Joly escape, and he’d spied the scars on the latter’s back, given because he’d treated Bossuet without permission. “I’m a doctor you see. Well, a surgeon with some traditional doctor’s training on top. And the captain I was working under, well. He didn’t allow me to treat people without his permission, including men he punished and the like. Let alone slaves on board.”

“Papa!” Cosette exclaims, and Grantaire thinks there must be some sort of unconventional family set-up going on here. “He’s a doctor, and Mullins has been looking for a replacement.”

At this, Valjean’s smile breaks out onto his face. “So he has. Well, if Joly is interested, we can certainly discuss it. The French and British navy both mistreat their sailors, but the medical training required to sail with them is without equal.”

“I’ve been missing my profession,” Joly answers, wistful. “But I’m afraid I can only give real thought to it there’s room on the crew for Bossuet and Grantaire also. From what I’ve learned there is a bit of a balance to keep on pirate crews so everyone might get their fair share.”

“You’re correct there,” Valjean says, looking over at Bossuet and Grantaire. “But we’ve some room on our crew still, some spaces to fill.”

“Well,” Fantine says, though Grantaire hears the teasing in her voice. “Only if they’ve something to recommend them.”

“Mama!” Cosette says, elbowing her mother in the side. “Don’t tease them.”

“Well,” Bossuet echoes, eyes bright. “My father was a blacksmith and passed his trade down to me. I haven’t been able to get work for a while given that far too many people spit on hiring a black man even if I could fix their weapons.”

“My father was a pirate,” Grantaire adds. “So I know my way around a ship. I’m also rather a good cook, if you’re ever in need of that sort of thing. Cooks on pirate ships I’ve been on were notoriously bad. And I speak three languages, though I suspect most of us here speak at least two.”

“He was also rather handy with a sword when we were escaping,” Enjolras adds, looking at Grantaire. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Noted,” Grantaire says, eyes remaining on Enjolras a moment even after he looks away.

“You may think on it of course,” Valjean replies. “But for now, we can surely get you to Nassau. Welcome aboard. Tell me your names again?”

“I’m Benoit Lesgles,” Bossuet answers. “Bossuet is a nickname. And this is Elliot Joly and Chema Grantaire. Thank you so much for your help.”

“I’m glad these lads ran into you,” Valjean says, eyes lighting up as they land on Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly. “Now I think we need to prepare for sail before we’re suspected. Cosette my dear, if you could go up to the crow’s nest and make sure there’s no one approaching, I would appreciate it. But please be careful, all right?”

“I will,” she says, standing up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, concern in his eyes as he watches her.

They’ve run into an odd sort of family here, Grantaire thinks. But a family nonetheless. He listens to Valjean call out orders, watches everyone disperse and follow them, readying the ship for sail, leaving him standing on deck alone with Joly and Bossuet.

“What an adventure we’ve found ourselves on,” Bossuet says, eyes scanning the horizon with excitement. “I certainly didn’t expect this when I woke up this morning, though I suppose I can say that for several things that have happened in the last year or so.”

“Nassau,” Joly says. “What do you suppose it will be like?”

“Rum-soaked,” Grantaire points out. “Which I can certainly get behind.”

Joly swats at him, laughing. “I’m sure that’s a given. But other than that, I mean.”

“I think we’ll fit in there,” Bossuet says, confident. “Perhaps even here, on this ship. I like this lot already.”

“So do I,” Joly answers, looping his arms through both of theirs as he stands between them. “Grantaire?”

“Yes,” he answers, eyes landing on Enjolras again, drawn toward him and his belief for reasons he cannot fully explain.  “They helped us when they didn’t have to, and I appreciate that. Besides,” he says, grinning at the two of them. “Who will look out for you two if I don’t stay?”

“Hilarious,” Bossuet says, dry, but amused, and Joly pulls them over toward the rail as the anchor goes up.

The stars dot the sky above them, the brightest of the bunch breaking through the scattered clouds and leaving pinpricks of light on the water.

“Look,” Joly says, pointing up. “You can just make out Orion.”

Grantaire looks up, spotting the constellation that’s half hidden by the clouds, feeling a smile creep onto his face. Most days he wouldn’t say he believed in fate, but today he thinks, he might make an exception.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, the Bahamas. August 1710.**

“I thought you said you knew where it was?” Gavroche says, crossing his arms grumpily over his chest.

“I said someone _told_ me where it was,” Bahorel answers, looking down at his young companion. “I’m not a map, I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I’m sure we’ll find it. You don’t hear Prouvaire complaining, do you?”

“He’s too busy looking around at the scenery,” Gavroche points out. “He’s going to run into a tree if he’s not careful.”

“I’m fully aware of the foliage in front of me,” Prouvaire answers, smiling down at Gavroche. “Mostly, anyhow. Besides,” he says, holding up his notebook. “I’m trying to take notes about the scenery and things I see.”

“Do you think this Fauchelevent man will give you the job?” Gavroche asks, fiddling with the new hat Bahorel bought for him once they arrived on Nassau. He’d protested, but Bahorel simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, and the boy eventually gave in.

“I’m not sure,” Bahorel answers. “But if he does, I won’t take unless there’s room for the two of you on the crew. We came here together, after all.”

“And your mother’s all right with your sailing on a pirate ship?” Prouvaire asks. “I couldn’t quite read her. I know it’s dangerous.”

“I did convince her to move to a pirate controlled island,” Bahorel says, grinning back at him. “So she knew this went with the territory. Besides, I’ll need to make some money while they try and get some business here, which I think will take some time. She worries, but I know she supports the general sentiment around here. And at least we didn’t have trouble renting rooms.”

“There’s a great deal more people than I expected on the island,” Prouvaire adds.

“I’ve heard the pirate population is getting close to 1,000,” Bahorel answers. “There hasn’t been a governor here since 1703, so I’m not surprised. There’s very few who wouldn’t say that it’s become a full-fledged pirate haven.”

“The pirate republic, they’re starting to call it,” Prouvaire adds. “I think I like it.”

“Hey is that it?” Gavroche asks, pointing to a modest two-story home in front of them, though it’s larger than Bahorel expected.

“I think so,” Bahorel says. “It fits the description. Good eyes.”

Gavroche gives a little bow and Bahorel laughs, breathing in deep before raising his hand and knocking on the door. There’s a pause before there’s an answer, and the door opens only partway, the sliver of space revealing a woman with brown eyes and dark skin, shoulder length curls piled on top of her head.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a tone not altogether unfriendly.

“I’d heard word that this was Captain Fauchelevent’s home,” Bahorel says, taking off his hat and smiling in what he hopes is a charming manner. “And I’d also heard word that he was looking for an assistant for his master gunner.”

“You heard correctly,” she says, opening the door wider now, and he studies her a moment. She’s small in stature, but there’s a spark in her eyes that make his smile spread across his face. “Come in.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I’m Eli Bahorel, and these are my associates, Jean Prouvaire and Gavroche.”

Fantine quirks one eyebrow at Gavroche, who mirrors her expression while Prouvaire shakes her hand. She shakes Bahorel’s hand as well, leading them toward a small sitting room. Bahorel hears the noises of inhabitants upstairs, but he doesn’t yet see them.

“Captain Fauchelevent is out on an errand,” she informs them, gesturing at them to sit. “But I’m the quartermaster on the ship. Once I speak to you I can pass word onto him. That is, unless you take issue with a woman in command.”

“Not at all,” Bahorel says, raising his hands up. “I know better.”

The woman’s smile widens a little. “Some of the men on this island, for all their talk of equality, are still superstitious of women.”

“Well I’ve heard tell that some of the best pirates are women,” Bahorel says, finding himself charmed. “I’ve no doubt you’re among them, if you’re Fauchelevent’s right hand.  Might I ask what your name is?”

“Fantine,” she answers, amusement in her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m assuming that if we hire you there’s a precondition that there is room for your friends also?”

“That is the case,” Bahorel says. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just rather used to new crew members coming in groups, the past few years,” she says, gaze flitting upward, and Bahorel doesn’t miss the fondness in her expression.  “So tell me, what are your qualifications?”

“I’ve been sailing since I was a lad,” Bahorel says. “Until recently that involved working on a merchant ship and learning to man their small amount of cannons. When I found out my long time employer was transporting slaves due to pressure from East India, well. I quit. After that I worked repairing cannons on ships that docked in Saint-Pierre on Martinique. I know ships and I know weaponry of all sorts, not just cannons. I also throw a good punch, if I do say so myself.”

“And that last part’s relevant?” she asks, but there’s interest in her eyes.

“Seems a good skill to possess when one might be a pirate.”

“And you’ve…sailed on pirate ships before?” Fantine asks, and Bahorel hears the bickering from upstairs growing closer.

“I…” he tries, before a frustrated raised voice interrupts him.

“Grantaire,” the voice says, cut through with exasperated fondness. “Let me rewrap this cut on your arm.”

“Joly, it’s fine, I swear,” the man called Grantaire protests. “It doesn’t even sting anymore.”

“Yes but that’s not really the point,” Joly protests, and Bahorel turns, seeing eight people ambling down the stairs, seven young men and a girl who Bahorel thinks looks very much like the woman sitting in front of him. “It just needs re-bandaging.”

“You’re battling him over nothing, Grantaire,” the young woman chides, smoothing her skirt. “Just let him do it. If you hadn’t gotten into that fight last night…”

“But you were there Cosette, you saw that I didn’t start the fight,” Grantaire says, turning toward her, but there’s a teasing expression in her eyes even as she crosses her arms over her chest in a reflection of her mother.

“My friend,” a lanky, bald man says. “You were trying to skip out on your tab at the tavern. That qualifies as starting a quarrel.”

“This is a _pirate_ island,” Grantaire argues. “We make our livelihood stealing.”

“Yes,” another man with glasses points out. “But generally not from each other. If there is stealing from one another, there’s usually a fight that follows.”

“I think all the rum addled your judgement, my friend,” a man with long curly brown hair that’s tied back says, glee in his green eyes. Next to him, a man with blond hair and intense blue eyes looks on at the scene before him with affection in his gaze, though he remains quiet.

“You had just as much rum as I last night Courfeyrac,” Grantaire retorts.

“Not quite,” Courfeyrac shoots back. “And I paid my tab. Just do us a service and let Joly tend to you so he won’t worry any longer?”

At this, the man called Grantaire turns around, a smile curving at his lips. “All right, all right,” he says. “You may patch me up, Joly.”

“Good man,” one of the others responds, this one slightly stocky with dreadlocks. “Oh,” he says, eyes landing on them. “I didn’t realize we had visitors.”

“You lot were so noisy you didn’t hear the door open,” Fantine says. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake Chantal from where she’s napping up there. These three are here about the assistant to the master gunner position, this is…”

“Eli Bahorel,” Bahorel finishes, standing up to greet them. “This smaller lad here is Gavroche and the one with the notebook in his hands is…”

“Jean Prouvaire,” Prouvaire finishes, standing up waving. “Pleased to meet you all.”

“This is my daughter Cosette,” Fantine offers. “And the one at the end there is Captain Fauchelevent’s nephew, Jahni Feuilly. The rest are members of our crew; Rene Enjolras, Frantz Combeferre, Auden Courfeyrac, Elliot Joly, Benoit Lesgles, though we call him Bossuet, and the one being predictably stubborn about his injury is Chema Grantaire.”

“Pleasure,” Bahorel says, shaking all of their hands, both Prouvaire and Gavroche following suit. “Do crews usually live together like this?”

“The rest of our crew is spread across the island,” Fantine explains. “But circumstance, shall we say, led some to live here with Captain Fauchelevent, Jahni, Cosette, and myself.”

“What brings you to Nassau?” the one called Enjolras asks, surveying them intently.

“I just moved my mother and two sisters here,” Bahorel explains. “From Saint-Pierre. My mother ran a tailor’s shop there, but we lost our rental there, given our landlord didn’t care for the fact that we were Jewish. I met Prouvaire a few months ago and he came along, as did Gavroche.”

“I lived in Guadeloupe in the Leeward Islands,” Prouvaire offers. “I left there when my father died and I sold off his sugar plantation. Coming here with Bahorel seemed the next logical step. Perhaps not to some. But to me. It’s fascinating here!”

“Prouvaire set free the slaves his father owned,” Bahorel adds. “He gave part of his inheritance to make sure they got passage where they wished, or to set them up in the region.”

“Bahorel,” Prouvaire protests.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Bahorel insists. “There’s not a single lie in my words.”

“My work would have been much easier if I’d already had friends here,” Prouvaire says. “I worry about the sailors I entrusted them to, and if the tales I’ve heard of your crew are true, I wouldn’t have had to worry working with you.”

“Well then,” Fantine says, softer and more trusting than before, and Bahorel senses that she, and likely some of the others, have experienced the horrors of slavery. “I think the lot of you will fit in well in Nassau.” She turns, looking at Gavroche. “And just how did you end up here?”

“Stowed away on the pirate ship Bahorel and Prouvaire sailed on,” Gavroche says, a challenge in his eyes, daring them to question his belonging there, but there’s a spark of his usual friendliness, even with these new people. “There wasn’t much for me on Martinique.”

“He does belong here,” Bossuet says, impressed.

“What did you say your name was?” Fantine asks.

“Gavroche,” he answers. “Gavroche Thenardier.”

Fantine stops short, eyes widening before they rove over toward her daughter, who breathes in sharply, but there’s no ill will in her eyes directed toward Gavroche. In fact, Bahorel thinks, there’s concern.

“Do you know my name?” Gavroche asks, picking up on the tension.

“I believe I’ve…crossed paths with your parents,” she says, not elaborating further, but Bahorel reads a painful story in her eyes. Given the Thenardiers, he’s not surprised.

“They’re brutes,” Gavroche says, clenching his fists. “So I’m sorry if you did. But I don’t have anything to do with them, if I can help it.”

“I see that,” Fantine says offering him a smile, and the tension relaxes in Gavroche’s shoulders. “You’ve left them behind.”

“Had to leave my sisters too,” Gavroche says. “Couldn’t convince them to leave.”

“Perhaps one day they will,” Cosette says, coming down the stairs and putting her hands on Gavroche’s shoulders. To Bahorel’s surprise, he allows it, and Bahorel thinks now that Cosette definitely knew Eponine and Azelma, perhaps in the time before Gavroche was born.

“Now,” Bahorel says, turning back toward Fantine and the matter at hand. “Now that we’re all introduced, I believe you were asking me if I’d ever sailed on a pirate ship. Up till recently, no. But I’m a quick study and I’ve been sailing otherwise nearly my whole life. Besides, piracy’s in my blood.”

“And how is that?” Fantine asks, raising both her eyebrows now.

“Surely you’ve heard of the famous Sephardic Jewish pirate Moses Cohen Henriques?” Bahorel asks. “He operated in this very region and founded a pirate island that existed before Nassau, somewhere off the coast of Brazil. So it’s in my ancestry, shall we say. And he worked with Henry Morgan.”

“Henry Morgan isn’t the sort of pirate we model ourselves after,” Fantine says, trying to look unimpressed, though the tone in her voice betrays her. “He was more a privateer raiding Spanish settlements for England than what we’re doing here.”

“Details,” Bahorel says, waving his hand. “My point stands. I believe all three of us would be worthy additions to your crew.”

Fantine studies him a moment, looking up at the others on the stairs before looking back at the three of them, warmth in her eyes.

“I need to discuss it with the captain,” she says. “I was actually about to go out into town to meet him with everyone, if the three of you would like to join us.”

“Certainly,” Bahorel says. “Prouvaire? Gavroche?”

Gavroche whoops in agreement, and though a bit of shyness shines in his eyes, Prouvaire clasps his hands together in enthusiasm.

“I’d love to!” he exclaims. “Perhaps along the way one of you can explain to me the details of how the island functions, and how your crew functions, I’m interested in it all.”

After a few moments they’re filing out the door, and Cosette walks up with her mother, looping their arms together, and Gavroche walks just near them, kicking small pebbles as he goes and taking in the scenery around him. Bahorel and Prouvaire fall back with the other seven, and the former feels some sort of pieces settle together in his chest. He couldn’t articulate the feeling even if he wanted to, he only knows a sense of rightness, the same one he’d felt upon meeting Jean Prouvaire, but amplified.

"How long have you been on the island then?" Bossuet asks. "I don’t recall seeing you about, though we did just dock a few days ago."

"We came at first a few weeks ago," Bahorel replies. "Then I had to leave again and retrieve my mother and sisters. They just settled about a week ago, so we're new."

"Well I think you'll fit right in," Joly says, looking excited. "I know Grantaire, Bossuet, and I did, when we arrived. Took a bit of adjusting, it's not like other places, but I infinitely prefer it here to my time in the French Navy."

"So when did all of you join Captain Fauchelevent's crew?" Prouvaire asks. "He and Fantine have been active a fair few years, haven't they?"

"Since the late 1690s," Combeferre answers. "Even before Nassau was overtaken and abandoned by the English.  "Enjolras and Courfeyrac and I have been on the crew about 4 years, and Grantaire, Bossuet, and Joly near 5 months. Feuilly here is Captain Fauchelevent's nephew, so he's been sailing with his uncle for about 8 years."

"Four years?" Bahorel asks, raising his eyebrows. "The three of you can't be much over twenty."

"We uh," Courfeyrac says, easing into the words. "Were runaways ourselves. From Port Royal. It's a bit complicated."

"Not too complicated that you can't share the story if we have the privilege of joining your crew, I hope?" Bahorel asks. "Sounds a bit like an adventure to me." He turns toward the blond-haired young man, curious. "Is your name Enjolras as in..."

"The East India captain?" Enjolras asks, a slight sigh in his voice. "That would be correct. I can't even try to keep it a secret anymore."

"Wasn't your grandfather the Royal Governor of Port Royal as well?" Bahorel asks. 

"You certainly know your names," Enjolras adds, but his expression remains friendly, if a bit guarded. "But yes."

"I worked on a merchant ship that eventually came under the sway of East India," Bahorel explains. "So I knew a great deal about the most powerful men in the Company. But I say bravo, it can't have been easy for the three of you to take a stand. I'll bet they were furious. Color me impressed you managed to get away from them."

"Well," Combeferre says, a smirk on his face. "They certainly spend a great deal of time and resources putting up those missing flyers with our faces on them. So I think so. I was Captain Enjolras' ward, you see, and East India..."

"Transports slaves," Prouvaire finishes for him, that familiar thin layer of calm anger Bahorel's heard before teeming in his voice. "No wonder you ran away."

"Enjolras' grandfather was also a bit of a demon," Courfeyrac adds, though he doesn't elaborate, but instead loops his arm through both Enjolras' and Combeferre's as they walk. 

"Seems we share a bit of a background in common with our fathers," Prouvaire says, looking over at Enjolras. "But we both broke away."

"So we did," Enjolras responds, offering a smile. “I’m glad of it, for both of us.”

"If you don’t mind my asking," Bahorel continues, lowering his voice. "But what connection is there between Fantine and her daughter and the Thenardiers? They both blanched at the mention of the name. I know they're small time slave runners, and some of the worst at that. It was all I could do try and help Gavroche out of their clutches."

"It's another long story," Feuilly answers, eyes flitting toward Cosette and Fantine. "But my uncle and Fantine had to rescue Cosette from them. She'd been enslaved, and it was no easy accomplishment. She's spoken of the two sisters, but Gavroche must not have been born yet."

Feuilly's voice brims with a sense of injustice, and Bahorel thinks that Cosette isn't the only one among this group who bore the very real marks of the slave trade. There's the spirit of a rebel inside these people he's met, and he finds a grin spreading onto his face. 

"Interesting waistcoat," he hears Grantaire say, pointing his finger at the material, which is red with thin gold stripes. "Though I suspect you have some scarlet opinions to match?"

"Indeed, my observant friend," Bahorel replies, grin growing wider. "Oh," he says, looking ahead when Fantine and Cosette stop short in front of them, calling out to a very tall man just a few feet away, who is surrounded by a group of ten or so men. He looks like Feuilly, Bahorel thinks, though with a beard, and his skin a few shades darker.

"Valjean!" Fantine shouts, rushing toward him. 

"Look at that," one of the men mocks. "Captain Fauchelevent can't even manage a brawl without his lady quartermaster."

"And apparently a chance to showcase said opinions," Bahorel says, surveying the situation, confused. "Wait," he says, leaning over toward Combeferre, who is nearest. "Why is he Valjean and Fauchelevent?"

"Valjean is his real name," Combeferre explains. "Fauchelevent is the name he took on when he became a pirate, to keep his identity hidden from some particular people."

"It's all right, Fantine," Valjean says, reassuring her. "Ackland's men and I were just...talking." He glares at them, and even Bahorel knows they should rightly be intimidated by the combination of his size and the look in his eyes. 

"We were about to start talking with our fists," one man says, a harsh laugh in his voice. 

"You are going to get yourselves kicked off the island if you keep this up," Fantine warns. "No one's got any quarrel with our crew but your captain, and for ridiculous reasons on disagreement with our tactics. And you're the ones always causing trouble."

"Wench!" One of the men shouts, and after that, all Bahorel really sees is a tangle of fists flying at one another. 

The group of men make for them, and in front of him, he sees Fantine hesitate for a split second before she decks a man directly in the nose for daring to come near Cosette.

"Nice blow!" Bahorel shouts, and she turns around, a half-smile sliding onto her face. 

Beside him, Jean Prouvaire kicks a man's feet out from under him with the precision Bahorel remembers from that day in the tavern, and he thinks fleetingly that almost everything about Prouvaire is unexpected, and he wonders if he might do well with reconnaissance, and makes a note to bring it up later. Never to be denied a place in a fight, he dives in, knocking a man to his feet with a well-placed strike to the ribs, catching eyes with the man called Valjean as he does so, and the older man tilts his head in confusion for a moment before knocking down a man lunging for him. Bahorel turns around, seeing Enjolras land a surprisingly powerful if yet unrefined punch, though it takes two blows for the man to fall. After a few moments the men are gone as quickly as they appeared, and now Bahorel definitely thinks he's fallen in with the correct crowd. 

"Say," he says to Enjolras, who rubs his sore knuckles on the edge of his worn blue coat, the faded red cravat around his neck coming loose. "That was quite a job you did there. Though if you like, I could teach you a bit more technique.”

"You could?" Enjolras asks, interest in his voice. 

"I've been in a fair few fights in my day, and my father taught me a thing or two," Bahorel says. 

"Most of my training had to do with swords, and sometimes with guns, though I prefer the former," Enjolras informs him. "But my family thought hand to hand was too..."

"Uncivilized?" Bahorel asks. 

"Something like that," Enjolras answers. "I suppose they didn't consider I'd need such a skill."

"I suppose not," Bahorel says, clapping him on the shoulder, noticing that he starts just a tad before relaxing. "But if your captain decides he wants to hire me, I can show you a few things. Even if he doesn't I suspect I'll be about."

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, and Bahorel sees a passion in his eyes he connects with, even if they show it differently.

Bahorel turns to Prouvaire, who casually dusts his trousers off with his hands.

“All right?” Bahorel asks.

“Certainly,” Prouvaire answers, winking at him. “Gavroche even helped me take one of them down.”

“Stole some coins from his pocket, too,” Gavroche says, holding his hand out proudly.

“Who are our new friends?” Valjean asks, putting a questioning hand on Fantine’s shoulder.

“This is Eli Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire, and Gavroche Thenardier,” Fantine says, and Bahorel sees recognition flash through Valjean’s eyes at the last name, though he doesn’t comment. “Bahorel here came to inquire about the work we have as an assistant to the master gunner, and hoped Prouvaire and Gavroche might join him.”

“And does he meet the qualifications?” Valjean asks, benevolence in his eyes now that the threat has vanishes as he surveys the three of them, though he directs his question at Fantine.

“I believe so,” Fantine answers. “More so than anyone else who’s approached us. I think they’d be fine additions.”

“Well,” Valjean says, reaching out to shake all of their hands, including Gavroche, and it is this, Bahorel finds, that draws him to the reality of the man himself somewhere among the almost legendary stories he’s heard. “I say welcome aboard.”

“So quickly?” Bahorel questions.

“You jumped in without hesitation to help us in that predicament,” Valjean says. “You meet the qualifications, and I trust Fantine’s judgement. Besides, anyone approaching me that directly either very much wants a place on my crew or they’re out to harm me. I don’t suspect you’re the latter? No British Royal Navy pins hidden anywhere on you?”

“No,” Bahorel answers, chuckling. “That’s not me. Or any of us. I just moved my family here from Martinique, and Prouvaire just left his home island after his father died. Gavroche here snuck away with us to get away from his parents. We were all…”

“Looking for a new place to call home,” Valjean finishes, a glimmer of happiness that Bahorel suspects was not so easily achievable shining in his eyes as he looks at the group of them. “I understand. He continues looking at them all for a moment, his eyes lingering on each of them before he speaks again. “I think we were all heading out to find our supper,” he continues. “I’m sure the three of you can tell me more over that, if you’d like to join us?”

“It would be an honor,” Prouvaire says, removing his hat and tipping it at Valjean in an almost courtly gesture that Bahorel finds endearing. When he looks at Valjean, he sees a similar sentiment in his eyes.

“Well I find it an honor that such talented young men as yourselves would seek me out,” he responds. “Those were quite some tactics you employed.”

“I never say no to a fight,” Bahorel adds. “Especially not with brutes like those, who deserve it.”

“Hear hear!” Courfeyrac exclaims, merry. “I think I like you already, Bahorel.”

“The same to you,” Bahorel says, feeling a grin on his face again.

With that they all start walking toward town, and Bahorel falls into step with Prouvaire. Ahead of them, Cosette jumps up, just barely nicking the hat off Valjean’s head and replacing her own with it, while Fantine watches, a peal of laughter pouring out of her, her arm looped through Feuilly’s, who looks on fondly. Joly still good-naturedly bothers Grantaire about his arm, and the latter shoots back some sort of teasing about a girl named Musichetta. Joly blushes until the tips of his ears turn red, and Bossuet laughs so hard he bends over as he walks, wrapping his arms around himself. To his other side Courfeyrac walks between Enjolras and Combeferre, chattering about something, both of them listening intently with their own versions of the same expression; Combeferre looks warmly at his friend over the rims of his spectacles, a hand running through his short curls, while a soft smile curves Enjolras’ lips upwards as he nods. After a moment Enjolras looks away as Gavroche catches up with his long stride, asking questions about the sword strapped to his belt.

“I like them,” Prouvaire says, joy chipping away at the melancholy that was so prevalent in his eyes the afternoon they met. Though, Bahorel supposes, Prouvaire wouldn’t truly be himself without a touch of melancholy at any given moment. It helped, Prouvaire said, with writing poetry.

“So do I,” Bahorel says, feeling a particular contentment cutting through the restlessness he’s felt lately. “I’m definitely ready to give it a try.”

“Absolutely,” Prouvaire answers, a dreamy quality to his voice as he looks out at the water while the sun sets, casting a faded amber glow over the sky, some of the stars already visible in the waning daylight.

“It’s an adventure then,” Bahorel replies, clapping Prouvaire on the back. “Didn’t suppose you’d end up here that day we met by accident, did you?”

“I didn’t,” Prouvaire says, eyes bright as he looks ahead at their new friends. “But I feel like I was meant to.”

* * *

**The Caribbean Sea. January 1711.**

Normally Enjolras feels unsettled by nights like this one; dark clouds paint themselves across the canvas of the blue-black sky, covering the light of the stars, the sliver of a crescent moon and their lanterns the only things by which they can see. The flames of the lanterns create small pools of light, but the corners of the deck remain shrouded in the night. He prefers it when the stars and the moon light their path, and he’s always loved the way the sunrise bursts over the horizon as the stars falls away, making room for the day. But the banter and laughter of his friends around him chases the darkness at the edges of the ship from his mind. His eyes flit to Valjean for a moment, a small smile playing at his lips as he watches his mentor at the wheel, Fantine standing near and talking about something Enjolras cannot hear, though she does reach over to muss Gavroche’s hair. He swats at her like a cat but still remains, looking pleased, eyes studying Valjean’s steering. Some of the crew walk about the ship, tending to small duties, but the nine of them and Cosette sit in a circle on deck, and the sight of them all makes Enjolras’ heart full. Combeferre shows Joly a page from a book on celestial navigation, their eyes squinting against the poor light, but enthusiasm in their voices. Bossuet, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac are playing Faro, and Enjolras cannot help but think of the first night he met Courfeyrac and their subsequent gambling exploits in Port Royal, money from which helped them escape. Prouvaire leans his back against Bahorel’s broad shoulder, telling some sort of sea legend complete with hand gestures. Feuilly sits nearest him with Cosette’s head resting on his knees, hat over her face and almost asleep. There’s a book in Feuilly’s hand, but the flame of his lantern quickly fades and he keeps holding the pages closer and closer to his eyes.

He is a part of something here, he thinks, all of them making up the whole of a push to do their part and make this region better. To fight back against the crush of colonialism and slavery and povety. They are all bright sparks in the fire, and he couldn’t be prouder to know each person here. It is in the smallest moments, he considers, that he realizes the fulfillment he feels. The happiness. Perhaps to some risking one’s life regularly and living on the outside of society wouldn’t evoke such feelings, but here he’s taking part in something revolutionary with people who share his feelings and his drive in their own different ways. Here, he can be himself. He couldn’t say the same as the years passed in Port Royal. His reverie breaks when he hears Bahorel give a rather more high-pitched than normal shout, jumping up from his place on the deck. Jean Prouvaire falls backward, catching himself on his elbows so he doesn’t hit his head. The ruckus wakes Cosette, who sits up, blinking and replacing her hat, confused.

“Bahorel!” he exclaims, indignant. “Why would you do that, I almost hit my head.”

“I told you the very first night we met I didn’t like stories about Davy Jones,” Bahorel says, sitting back down and looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

“You were the one who wanted to hear sea legends since the atmosphere was right,” Prouvaire argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “It _is_ a perfect night.”

“Yes, but I’d rather not hear stories about the Satan of the sea pulling me down to the depths when I can barely see,” Bahorel replies, readjusting his hat and clearing his throat. “Sorry for almost making you hit your head.”

“So you can tackle an East India or a naval officer to the deck without hesitation,” Grantaire says, turning away from his card game with a smirk. “But you can’t hear a story about a ghost ship that pulls sailors to their deaths but is most certainly not real?”

Bahorel smacks Grantaire’s arm in response, and Grantaire flicks back, causing a burst of laughter from Joly, who looks up from the book he studies with Combeferre.

“Children,” Bossuet says, laying one of his cards down but doesn’t look over. “Do behave.”

“Really,” Courfeyrac adds, grinning. “I thought we were all professionals here.”

“Professional thieves,” Bahorel says, winking.

“But for the good of man,” Feuilly answers.

“Hear hear,” Combeferre says, tipping his hat.

“But just how do you _know_ Davy Jones doesn’t exist, Grantaire?” Prouvaire asks, leaning against Bahorel again, apparently unconcerned.

“I don’t believe in ghosts, my dear friend,” Grantaire answers. “Especially not ones that haunt the bottom of the ocean, that’s far too waterlogged.”

“I think there’s far more to the world than we can see,” Prouvaire insists. “Perhaps Davy Jones as we’ve imagined him doesn’t exist, but there are spirits in this ocean around us. The sea is a very old place, after all, and men have been sailing on it for a long time.”

“Ah but do finish the story, Prouvaire,” Cosette says, intrigued, folding her hand and resting her chin on them. “I didn’t even hear the first part of it.”

“Cosette,” Bahorel complains, drawing the name out in a slight wine. “Must we?”

“Oh, you can come sit next to me if you’re frightened,” she teases. “Consider it thanks for showing me how to properly kick someone in the knees.”

“Much to your mother’s chagrin,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She only pretends,” Cosette answers, eyes looking over at her mother fondly for a moment. “Now will you please let him tell the story?”

“Only if none of you tease me anymore about Davy Jones,” Bahorel answers. “These lads aren’t so lucky as you Cosette, their faces aren’t so innocent as to make me forgive them for the transgression.”

“I disagree, Bahorel,” Courfeyrac protests. “I think my face is perfectly innocent.” His eyes move over to Enjolras, mischief within them. “You agree, don’t you Enjolras?”

“Oh now,” Enjolras says, biting his lip against a grin. “Do not put me in the middle of such a thing between my friends.”

“I could perhaps forgive Enjolras for teasing me about Davy Jones,” Bahorel says, considering. “He’s more charming than you, Courfeyrac.”

“You are a rogue,” Courfeyrac replies, attempting a serious expression, but laughter puts a waver in his voice, giving him away.

“Thank you,” Bahorel says. He turns back to Jean Prouvaire, who waits expectantly. “All right, tell your story before I change my mind.”

All of them put away their various amusements and gather closer together. Combeferre closes the book he and Joly were examining, coming to sit next to Enjolras. His old necklace his mother gave him in childhood broke a few months ago, now replaced by a new one Chantal made with a little help from Tiena, a simple black leather chain with a golden star hanging from the end, a tribute to his skills in navigation and to the father who taught him. Enjolras looks down at his left hand at his own new piece of jewelry, a simple silver band that Bossuet helped Chantal and Tiena forge, the word Liberte engraved on the top. Combeferre and Courfeyrac have ones that match, and it’s the one thing he never removes, a reminder of where they’d been and where they are now, fighting for the liberty of others, and having found their own.

“It is said by some that Davy Jones holds power over a fearsome creature known as the Kraken,” Prouvaire says, his voice a loud, dramatic whisper. “And that if he marks you with the black spot to send the creature after you, there is no escape.”

“Truly the stuff of nightmares,” Combeferre whispers in his ear, affection in his voice for their friends wrapped in his dry amusement, and Enjolras holds back a chuckle. “I shan’t sleep tonight.”

“I suspect Jehan could save us from the Kraken,” Enjolras answers. “Tame it perhaps, turn it to good.”

“Enjolras,” Prouvaire says in reprimand with a tone similar to his tutors from childhood. “Are you talking during my story?”

“Apologies my friend,” Enjolras says, and Prouvaire smiles at him. “Do go on.”

Prouvaire does, and Enjolras removes his hat, leaning his head on Combeferre’s shoulder, the contentment of the moment lifting his spirt in a way that a few years ago, he only hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter! Just as a note in case you're wondering where Marius and Eponine are, they're set to pop up in the next chapter! And we'll also reconvene with Javert.


	14. Book II (Coming Together): Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire hear news of captured pirates and a possible spy being sent to Nassau during one of their reconaissance missions. Worry persists in both Valjean and Enjolras' minds that the spy might be Javert, and the past comes closer than it ever has before. Javert and Michel rise through the ranks, and Javert watches as Michel's relationship with his father in law starts splintering. Valjean and Javert face off once more on the shores of Nassau, Javert following the clues that he thinks will lead him to Enjolras and Combeferre and to arresting Valjean and Fantine. But these events only draw the crew of the Misericorde closer. One night while leaving money on doorsteps on Martinique, Cosette, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly meet Eponine and Marius, and Cosette unites Gavroche with his sister, adding the final pieces to their crew.

**Antigua, the Leeward Islands. 1712.**

Less than two years ago, Jean Prouvaire wouldn’t have expected he’d be going on reconnaissance missions for a group of pirates, yet here he is, confident in his own abilities, if still a smidge nervous. These things never passed without some of that.

They’ve only been at this party for an hour or so, and yet Prouvaire already remembers why he despised these sorts of affairs; not a single person in this room wanted to talk about anything interesting, and were he not constantly playing his part in order to get the needed information they seek, he’d be bored to tears. As it is, he finds playing this game rather entertaining. He’s good at it besides. He’s something like a natural at reconnaissance; he hadn’t considered until Bahorel mentioned it, but then he supposed he’d hidden an entire belief system from his father, and really, this wasn’t so different. Just more dangerous. Beside him, Courfeyrac smiles at the two British Royal Navy men and an East India officer, all three of whom who are already on their third glass of wine. Courfeyrac feigns taking a sip of his, the wine touching his lips but falling back when he lowers the glass.

“This party’s a bit of a bore,” one naval officer says. “Though it’s the last time I’ll be on land for a bit. I sail out with Commander Javert and the admiral’s crew soon, in tandem with Michel Enjolras’ ship.”

“Really?” the East India officer says. “They run a disciplined ship, so I wish you luck with that, I sailed under Enjolras for a bit. Though they’re better to their men than most, I’ve heard. Especially the officers.

“I’ve heard Javert might be captain of his own ship, soon,” the first naval officer replies. “So I’ll see some action, for certain. Perhaps more action than I really bargained for when I joined, but the times do change.”

“It seems Commodore Enjolras and Commander Javert are a force to be reckoned with,” one naval officer says. “They’ve captured a few ships full of pirates recently, who no doubt met their end at the gallows once they were transferred from Kingston to Port Royal.”

“Yes,” the East India officer argues. “But more pirates appear every day, so it seems they’re barely keeping up.”

“Well they’ve got that dreadful hive on Nassau,” one naval officer points out. “It does give them somewhere to hide.”

“Those pirates are a scourge,” Courfeyrac says, though Prouvaire sees his hand tighten on his wine glass at the mention of Enjolras’ father and Javert, and Prouvaire understands why; not only did those two men harm Enjolras and Combeferre, which was the most mortal of sins to Courfeyrac, but in principle they stood against everything they fought for, the personal and the ideological melded together. “I imagine the Commodore and the Commander have their work cut out for them.”

“Well,” one says, the air of one gossiping in his voice. “Michel Enjolras hasn’t got much more to do, has he? His son ran away, and his wife clearly half-despises him for it. His father in law has tried to circulate the story that the boy and their ward, Combeferre’s son, and a third boy who I can’t recall, were kidnapped by pirates. But we all know the truth, no matter how much influence Baron Travers has.”

At this Courfeyrac’s hand tightens further, his face paling, and Prouvaire steps in.

“Well if the lads were spending time around the wrong people it’s not a stretch to think they might have been kidnapped,” Prouvaire answers. “We were just discussing how much trouble pirates are.”

“Interrupting trade routes, stealing money and goods and slaves,” one of the men says, sniffing as he takes a sip of his wine, and Prouvaire evens out his breathing, keeping his anger invisible.

“Well you didn’t hear it from me,” the other says, leaning in with a whisper. “But I’ve heard they’re thinking of sending a spy to Nassau.”

“Attacking it?”

“God no. They’d need a full armada for that, and they’re not willing yet. They’re focused on picking them off one by one. But if they had an insight into Nassau, then perhaps they could form a strategy and attack the island.”

“That sounds either brilliant or like some kind of fool’s errand,” one of the other men responds. “I for one wouldn’t want to risk myself walking into a pirate haven.”

“Afraid, Smith?” one asks.

“I can handle some pirates,” the one called Smith answers. “But I also know I’d rather not walk onto an island filled with men who would kill me.”

“Perhaps they would just force you to be one of them,” another laughs. “And then it would be you we’d be chasing.”

All three laugh at this, and Prouvaire knocks back the rest of his wine, making eye contact with Courfeyrac, who does the same.

“Well gentlemen,” Prouvaire says. “It appears my libations are gone, as are my friend’s. We are off to retrieve more, but it’s been excellent speaking with you.”

The three men bid them farewell, unbothered about asking again for their names, unsurprising given the amount of wine they’ve had. They walk out in the entrance hall, and Prouvaire places his glass on a tray, though Courfeyrac keeps a hold of his. After a few moments they’re outside again, not speaking until they’re down the drive. Prouvaire opens his mouth, but he’s cut off by Courfeyrac hitting his wine glass against a nearby palm tree, the glass falling down into the sand, residual drops of wine flowing down.

“Are you all right?” Prouvaire asks, putting a hand in the crook of Courfeyrac’s elbow.

“Better now that I’ve broken that glass,” Courfeyrac says, attempting a smile, but it falters, and Prouvaire pulls him closer, their sides pressed together.

“I know hearing about Javert and Enjolras’ father can’t be easy for you,” Prouvaire says, gentle.

“It’s even harder for them,” Courfeyrac says, gritting his teeth. “It seems like no matter how far away we are, no matter that we’ve started entirely new lives, we can’t quite escape them. They went through so much, I just had to watch. Or hear about the things that happened before I even met them.”

“That brings its own set of pain and difficulties,” Prouvaire answers. “It hurts us to watch people we love go through pain and feel as if we can do nothing. But if not for you it would have been far more difficult for them to get out of Port Royal.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, and Prouvaire’s heart lifts when he sees his friend’s smile stay on his face now, even if it’s not as bright as usual. “And god knows I’m aware they can take care of themselves, even more now than then. I only…”

“I know,” Prouvaire echoes, leaving space for Courfeyrac’s reply.

Courfeyrac squeezes Prouvaire’s hand in thanks, then releases it, removing his hat and the powdered wig beneath it.

“This blasted thing itches like the devil,” he says. “But at least we got information. They want to send a spy to Nassau. Foolish, but dangerous too. We’ll need to keep an eye out. Especially if the spy is connected to Commodore Enjolras or Javert.”

“Valjean’s not going to like it,” Prouvaire says, frowning. “He’ll worry.”

“He will indeed,” Courfeyrac says, stopping as they reach the meeting point, seeing Bahorel and Bossuet walking up from the other direction, having gone to the tavern in the hopes of getting information from some of the enlisted men on the naval and East India deck crews.

“How was it?” Bahorel calls out, smirking at their proper outfits.

“I’m sure yours was loads more entertaining,” Courfeyrac complains.

“Undoubtedly,” Bahorel says. “Less stiff, for certain. And better drinks.”

“We heard tell that two crews of pirates were captured and executed in the past month alone,” Bossuet says, looking grim, an odd expression on his normally cheerful face. “One by our own Commodore Enjolras and Commander Javert. The other still by the British Royal Navy. Though at least we also heard that one of the British Man O’Wars was destroyed by that Captain Robins fellow, Valjean and Fantine’s friend, and the two ships he commands. He let the remaining sailors go, but the captain had to send up a smoke signal for help.”

“They are putting their targets on us more lately,” Courfeyrac says, leaning in closer. “But you won’t believe what we found out. Apparently they’re thinking of sending a spy to Nassau.”

“Really?” Bahorel says, raising his eyebrows. “That’s foolish, if the man’s caught.”

“Well they can’t attack Nassau as is,” Prouvaire counters. “And it’s no secret the English want the island back.”

“Well we’ve got the upper hand,” Courfeyrac adds. “Especially now that we know.”

“Valjean’s going to worry,” Bossuet says.

“That’s what I said,” Prouvaire answers. “Speaking of, we’d best get back to the ship, or Valjean will worry and Fantine will have our hides.”

“That is true,” Bahorel says with a chuckle. “Valjean would forgive us, but Fantine, she won’t let us forget.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t misbehave,” Bossuet says, raising his eyebrows as they start walking toward the docks.

“I was late for sail _once_ ,” Bahorel says, and Provaire laughs when Bossuet raises his eyebrows even further. “Fine twice,” Bahorel admits. “She still likes me.”

“Yes but you’d like her to like you even _more_ ,” Courfeyrac says, reaching out and poking Bahorel in the arm.

“Quiet, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel says, reaching over and poking Courfeyrac in the chest in retaliation. “You don’t know what goes on inside my head. And besides you have no proof.”

“Thank _God_ I’m not inside your head,” Courfeyrac teases. “And certainly I do, you’re not as sneaky as you think.”

“She’s a good eight years older than me, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel argues, though Prouvaire knows just by how quickly he answers that he’s giving himself away.

“Oh please,” Courfeyrac scoffs. “As if that matters.”

“You young ones shouldn’t talk about matters you don’t understand,” Bahorel says, ruffling Courfeyrac’s hair. Courfeyrac swipes back at him with his hat, mock-offended.

“Young ones,” he protests. “You are only 8 years older than _me_.”

“Yes but there is a great difference between 23 and 31,” Bahorel says, grinning. “Ah look the ship!”

“You’ve escaped for now,” Courfeyrac says.

“How’s that exactly?” Bossuet asks. “We’re on the same ship, so I’m sure you can pester him to your heart’s content as soon as we report in.”

“You’re encouraging them, Bossuet?” Prouvaire asks with a smile.

“Of course,” Bossuet answers, winking. “I’m owed my fair share of amusement at my friends’ expense, am I not?”

“Ah perhaps so my friend,” Prouvaire anwers, clasping Bossuet’s shoulder. “Perhaps so.”

They fall silent as they step onto the gangplank, Prouvaire’s eyes falling on Enjolras, who smiles at Joly, listening intently as Joly explains the various uses of some of the medicines in his bag with great enthusiasm. Enjolras had long wished he could participate in these reconnaissance missions, Valjean’s completely reasonable fear that he’d be recognized among the ranks of British Navy and East India officers keeping him on the ship. The moment Enjolras and Joly spot them Joly and Enjolras rush over, Joly quietly eyeing them for injuries before coming to rest next to Bossuet.

“There you are,” Enjolras says. “Valjean and Fantine were growing concerned.”

“You look a bit concerned yourself,” Bahorel says, catching Enjolras’ eye before putting a hand on his arm, a well-practiced habit by now.

“Well,” Enjolras admits, a smile flickering at his lips. “I know you all are immensely capable, but I confess to always being concerned. If you were caught those men can be ruthless.”

“Luckily they did not even suspect,” Courfeyrac says, sliding an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “Though I admit, Prouvaire saved me a bit. They mentioned your father and Javert.”

“What?” Enolras asks, voice still calm, but sharp. “What did you find out?”

“There’s been more pirates caught than normal lately,” Bossuet informs him, putting care into his words. “Many by your father and Javert.”

“And the admiral who runs the coalition between East India and the British Navy are thinking of sending a spy to Nassau.”

“A spy?” Feuilly questions, coming up with Combeferre behind him, charts in his hands.

“So the three fellows we spoke to said,” Prouvaire answers. “Where are Valjean and Fantine?”

“Here,” Valjean says, Fantine, Cosette, Joly, Grantaire, and Gavroche following him. “Did you say a spy?” There’s a desperate urgency in his voice that Prouvaire hasn’t truly heard before, and he finds it unsettles him. Valjean is so solid, so strong, and though Prouvaire’s seen hints of fear in his eyes before, he’s not heard this tremor in his voice.

“Yes,” Courfeyrac answers. “Granted it was told by three men more interested in gossiping about Commodore Enjolras and Javert, but….”

“This was said in connection with them?” Valjean asks, placing hand on Courfeyrac’s forearm, eyes darting over toward Enjolras and Combeferre, who stand next to each other.

“They were discussing all the pirates that have been rounded up lately,” Courfeyrac says, looking back at Bahorel and Bossuet. “So it matched with the rumors we’d heard. Bahorel and Bossuet heard the same from the deck mates in the tavern. And that Commodore Enjolras and Javert were responsible for a great many of them. But that they were having trouble keeping up with the sheer amount of pirates. And they’d heard they were thinking of sending a spy to Nassau.”

“It’s a fool’s errand,” Feuilly says, though Prouvaire notices him curl a hand over Valjean’s wrist, obviously sensing his uncle’s discomfort.

“I’d agree,” Bahorel says, grimacing. “But they’re desperate. And embarrassed, I’d wager. They’re catching some of us, but there’s still yet more pouring into the region.”

Silence falls for a moment, and Prouvaire watches Valjean’s eyes land first on Cosette and Feuilly, then on Courfeyrac, then on Enjolras and Combeferre. Fantine, meanwhile, watches Valjean.

“If they are this set on Nassau,” Valjean says, slow with his words, a hazy decision forming in his eyes. “Then perhaps it would be best if we closed up the house there and kept to the sea.”

Shock waves resound in the group for a few moments, and even before Fantine speaks up, Cosette steps forward.

“Papa,” she breathes. “Nassau is our home. We can’t run from it.”

Valjean turns, taking both of her hands in his. Something about the image pulls at Prouvaire’s heart; this tall, broad intimidating looking man with kind eyes that crinkle when he smiles at this young girl, small and light on her feet, curls tumbling down her back beneath her black hat. He imprints the image on his mind, thinking he might write it down later.

“This ship is also our home,” he says. “You’ve said that.”

“Yes,” she says, determination in her eyes, though she squeezes her adoptive father’s hands in reassurance. “But so is Nassau. It’s where people like us go as a safe haven. You’ve also said that.”

“This is growing dangerous,” Valjean protests, but he’s benevolent still. “It puts all of us in danger. I don’t want Javert discovering more about yours and Jahni’s connections to me. And I need not even elaborate about Rene, Frantz, and Auden.”

“I don’t want to allow Javert or my father to run us out of our home,” Enjolras says, quiet, cold anger in his voice not at Valjean, but at his father and Javert. “We have fought for it, and you especially have.”

“I know,” Valjean says, and Prouvaire thinks he sees the hint of tears in the older man’s eyes. “But I want to keep all of you safe. It is my duty.”

“We know,” Combeferre says, soft. “But you offered us a home, and honestly, on land there’s no place safer than Nassau.”

“Valjean,” Fantine says, stepping up. “I understand the urge to run. But even if they do send a spy, we know now. We can prepare and be on the lookout. We can alert the others on Nassau.”

“But will that be enough?” Valjean questions. “If they send a spy, perhaps one day they will send an armada.”

“We will cross that bridge if it comes to it,” Fantine says. “But we are not there yet.”

Valjean’s eyes fall once more on Enjolras, and Fantine’s eyes follow.

“And if they send Javert?” Valjean asks, and Prouvaire sees they’ve reached the crux of the matter.

“Then we will do our best to prevent his knowledge of the three of them being here,” Fantine says, her voice full of understanding but still firm, anchoring Valjean and his instinct to flee. “You once said you believed him discovering them was inevitable. But I believe we can put it off. Besides,” she says, and there’s a hint of mischief in her eyes. “I think you’d be hard pressed to get the rest of the crew to abandon Nassau so easily.”

Valjean considers for a moment, then allows himself a smile. “Reminding me of my respect of the democratic process,” he says. “An appropriate move, my friend.” He looks around at all of them, eyeing them each in turn. “I need all of you to assure me you’ll be on the lookout. That you’ll be more careful than usual.”

“We will Uncle Jean,” Feuilly says, and some of the fear in Valjean’s eyes melts when he looks at this nephew. “You’ve got a sharp crew on your hands, and I’ll let the rest of the men know.”

There’s a general murmur of assent, and Valjean turns, offering a smile to Prouvaire, Bahorel, and Bossuet.

“Thank you again lads,” he says, clasping each of their hands. “You always impress me with the information you’re able to get, and it especially matters now.”

“Our pleasure Valjean,” Prouvaire says, squeezing the older man’s hand when it’s in his own, hoping that he too, might add some reassurance.

Valjean nods, beckoning Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac over, no doubt to glean more from Courfeyrac about what exactly they’d heard about Javert and Michel, and to gather the other two’s reactions.

“Well that was certainly eventful,” Grantaire remarks, voice cutting into the silence.

“Do you think it will be Javert?” Joly asks, concerned. “The spy, I mean.”

“With our lots’ luck with that man?” Grantaire grumbles. “Undoubtedly.”

“I think it depends on what they’ll go for,” Bahorel answers. “Javert is more recognizable, so they’d have to work on his ensemble. But then, he is also, unfortunately, very competent. Well, at least at sailing, I can’t speak for his spying skills. Perhaps he’ll be terrible at it.”

“And he has a personal grudge against Valjean and Fantine,” Bossuet adds.

“Not to mention if he discovers Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac,” Prouvaire says. “Though Valjean seems to think that inevitable. But hopefully we can prevent if for now.”

“Sounds like a wretch,” Gavroche points out, folding his arms over his chest. “And I can spot one of those a mile away.”

“So you can good sir,” Bahorel says, daring to reach down and muss Gavroche’s hair, and they all laugh, the sound breaking into the tension of the moment and shattering it across the deck. “We shall certainly employ your talents. You did spot that thief who was trying to pick-pocket me in Saint-Pierre.”

 They wait a few moments until Valjean finishes speaking to Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. Bahorel intercepts Enjolras by taking his sleeve, and the latter turns around. Prouvaire reads the upset about news of his father and Javert in Enjolras’ eyes, which always give him away.

“Let’s go hit a few things, it will make you feel better,” Bahorel says.

“What?” Enjolras asks, tilting his head.

“A sparring session my friend,” Bahorel answers, chuckling. “A sparring session. Get some of that pent up energy out.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, eager. “Thank you.”

They start heading off the ship, the others following them, no doubt to watch them or find their own amusements in the few hours before they’re due to set sail. It’s always easier under cover or night, Prouvaire’s learned, because even if they’re hiding in plain sight with their collection of various flags, sometimes dock workers are suspicious.

“Bahorel!” Fantine calls out, and Prouvaire watches him turn, grinning with mischief. “If you’re late for departure you will hear about it from me.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, sweeping his hat off and bowing slightly. Fantine scoffs, but her eyes smile, and Prouvaire’s heart feels lighter at the sight. “But I won’t be, Enjolras can’t bear being late.”

Prouvaire goes along happily with the others, grinning as Bahorel falls into step with him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Beside him, Grantaire is declaring to Joly, Bossuet, and Combeferre that he will take bets on the sparring match, while Courfeyrac walks arm in arm with Feuilly and Cosette, both of whom look pleased.

No matter the danger, Prouvaire thinks, this is leagues better than his life on Guadeloupe. These people, this ship, is home.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1712.**

Javert hears a growl of frustration emerge from his lips before he can help himself.

“I’m telling you that you’re being offered your freedom if you offer evidence on your comrades,” he continues, standing with his palms flat on the desk separating him from the prisoner. “You’re all accused of consorting with pirates and you know what that possibly means, these days.”

“Sir,” the man pleads. “I’m telling you I don’t know anything about their consorting with pirates. I was caught with them at the wrong time.”

“They are facing the gallows and you may face a long prison stretch if you do not _cooperate_ ,” Javert says, emphasizing the last word.

“I’m just a blacksmith, Commander Javert,” the man protests. “I know nothing about sailing, I have no need to consort with pirates or make friends with those who do.”

“But you may possess sympathies,” Javert says, pulling his hands off the desk and folding them behind his back, posture straight. “You may hide them away in your quarters. They are a plague, do you understand? There cannot be mercy for their heinous activities.”

“Sir I am too busy trying to put food in my children’s mouths to even think on pirates, let alone help them. I cannot speak entirely for my friends, but I suspect they didn’t know the full extent of the crimes of those sailors. I’m just a poor man…”

Javert holds up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

“Save your breath, Mr. Rollins,” he says. “I have heard this before. You are still not answering me.”

The man opens his mouth in response but before he utters a word another voice cuts him off, the face of one of Javert’s underlings appearing in the doorway of the office where the interrogation takes place.

“What is it, Collins?” Javert asks. “I’m a bit busy here.”

“Commodore Enjolras and the Admiral are looking for you,” the lad answers. “Along with some of the other officers. They asked that you come right away. They’re…” he lowers his voice so the blacksmith doesn’t here. “They’re discussing the plans to send a spy to Nassau, sir.”

“Right,” Javert says. “Well take this man back his cell if you would. He’ll have time to consider the offer we’ve made.”

He exits the office without another word, removing his hat and smoothing his newly shorn hair. It’s still tied back but much shorter and certainly tidier than before, which is only appropriate for his new position. There’s been rumbling about possibly promoting him to the captain of his own ship, and this could be his opportunity to prove himself further, though the admiral’s already assured him of the inevitability. Besides that, he knows for a fact Valjean makes port out of Nassau, and ever since their last meeting the wretched man’s slipped through his fingers, but Javert cannot forget the worry in his eyes even through his mask of an expression.

He was _hiding_ something.

He wouldn’t assist the son of an East India captain, he said, and yet Javert recalls the story of the “blond brat” who injured another EITC captain a few years ago. They’re crumbs, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow them. He knocks on the door that’s slightly ajar, stepping inside once he receives an affirmative answer. He’s met by a small group of men seated around a table; several of the most high-ranking officers in the area, the most notable is Admiral Adams, who he routinely sails under. Seated next to him are Michel and a few other East India men that are a part of the anti-piracy effort. Baron Travers sits next to his son-in-law, and Javert notices the frostiness between them, both with stiff limbs, avoiding letting the sleeves of their coats touch. They had a heated argument last week over the way Michel treated slaves on his ship, and what Baron Travers thought was a “misuse” of resources. In the baron’s mind Michel overfed them and didn’t transport as many as he could, and Michel felt that disease would spread if they were packed too tightly. Michel was more powerful than ever, but the baron held power over East India’s trade through his political appointment, and that was completely leaving aside his personal power over his son in law. There’d been more emotion in Michel’s voice than Javert expected that day, his internal troubles with the slave trade rising up again, and Javert heard echoes of Arthur Combeferre in his words, the memories of Frantz and Rene in his eyes. Disagreements with the governor were rare, but Javert’s noticed in the years since the boys went missing, even if they aren’t frequent, they are explosive. In the end they’d come to an agreement, but pieces of the tension still remained. But above all else, Michel did his job.

Cups of tea rest in front of all the men save Michel, who drinks coffee. It’s a habit brought with him from France, and given the amount of French planters who grow coffee in the region, there’s no shortage of imports to Jamaica. Javert remembers Rene stealing sips from his father’s cup as a child, still preferring it to tea as he grew older, though he drank the latter more often because of his grandfather. When he could get away with it, he’d refuse sugar in either drink. Javert knew it was due to sugar’s connection with the slave trade, but he hadn’t pushed it out of the presence of the governor; arguing with Rene over something like that was fruitless. He shakes his head, chasing the memory away.

“Javert,” Admiral Adams says, gesturing at the empty chair next to Michel. “Do join us.”

“Thank you sir,” he answers, sharing a brief smile with Michel before sitting down. “My apologies for not being here, I wasn’t aware I was needed. I was interrogating a prisoner.”

“Quite all right,” the admiral responds. “We were just discussing the plan to send a spy to Nassau.”

“Have you selected someone?” Javert asks.

“You, as it happens,” the admiral answers. “If you’ll accept, that is.”

“I was just telling the admiral of all the many reasons I find you qualified,” Baron Travers says. “You’ve been an excellent sailor and soldier for all the years I’ve known you.”

Javert holds his breath a moment; sometimes the baron couches his success in the terms of how far he’s come since letting Valjean and Fantine escape. Now, however, he doesn’t, and Javert feels relief flood him. He knows his own competency, but that night, the fact that Valjean and Fantine turned into pirates, the fact that his instincts tell him Rene, Frantz, and Auden are possibly with them, haunts him.

“I’m certain Commodore Enjolras agrees with me,” Baron Travers continues.

“Certainly,” Michel answers, looking over at Javert with respect and affection. “I’ve known Javert since he was a very young man, and he’s one of the finest men I’ve had the pleasure of working with.”

“He’s become one of my best men,” Admiral Adams agrees. “And you think him right for this particular mission, Commodore?”

“Absolutely,” Michel says. His words sound confident, but though no one else notices, Javert sees something flicker in Michel’s face. He’s sure it’s to do with worry over whether or not he’ll accept this job in his determination to locate Valjean and Fantine. They’re certainly targets for Michel as well, but his concern over the effect it has on Javert has always been spoken aloud when they’re in private. “There’s no one better.”

“Well what do you say Javert?” the admiral asks. “We’ve consent from all the other men here.”

“I would be honored, admiral,” Javert answers. The truth was he’d hoped for this assignment, but he hadn’t pressed.

“Good man,” Admiral Adams answers. “It won’t be an extended stay; I’m not yet willing to risk leaving our ships so near to the shore of Nassau for long.” An uncomfortable pall comes over the room at those words, everyone full of the silent knowledge that for now, the pirates possess an advantage they never saw coming. “But we’ll focus our efforts on the early evening and night, keep the ship about half a league or so from shore, you’ll row in and blend in among them. Find out the lay of the land, see if there are weaknesses we could take advantage of for a future attack, any word of their scheming, would be useful.”

“There’s not a fear they would recognize me?” Javert asks.

“Luckily while most of those villains know your name and reputation, they do not know your face,” Admiral Adams says. “You’ve caught most of the ones you’ve encountered, save for a few exceptions that have proved slippery to us all.”

Valjean, Javert thinks, is the slipperiest of all. Even Michel’s had to admit that, no matter his worries over Javert’s paranoia.

“It is inevitable,” Michel adds. “I hate to say it, but we’ve got a formidable opponent on our hands.”

“When will this assignment take place?” Javert asks.

“In a month’s time,” the admiral answers. “There’s a great deal of preparation that it requires. But I have faith that we’ll be able to recover at least some information.”

“Is planning an attack imminent?” Baron Travers asks. “These people are pests, and we’re losing a great deal of money.”

“It will not be imminent, no,” Admiral answers, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. “It will take a great deal of planning, and the pirates are skilled. I won’t send my men into a bloodbath. But even if this doesn’t provide us with a way to attack Nassau, I am hopeful it will provide word of some of the most notorious groups’ movements. That Fauchelevent fellow, for instance. Not as much bloodshed as I’d expect, but enough, and even more so a great deal of monetary loss and immense aggravation and interruption of trade. You’ll have to watch out for him, Javert, he might recognize you.”

Javert clenches his fists under the table, fingers grabbing at the loose material of his trousers. The admiral is right, however, he will have to keep a weather eye out for Valjean and Fantine, both who would recognize him if he wasn’t careful.

“We are losing some of our men to the pirates,” Admiral Adams continues. “Mostly deck-hands and people like that, weak minded men they can convince with their misleading promises of economic equality and better, more _democratic_ treatment,” he says, scorn in his tone. “A farce in every sense of the word, but it does draw people in.”

“What do you suppose we ought to do about that, admiral?” Michel asks. “Some of the townspeople even in Kingston laud the scoundrels and all the lore surrounding them, and this is a bastion of British Navy and East India support.”

“We must do a better job controlling the way their image comes across,” Admiral Adams answers. “We must focus on their lawlessness, their bloodshed, their thievery. They are outlaws, and they must be remembered as such, no matter what _good_ people may think they’re doing. None of it is truly such.”

“Controlling the narrative,” Michel replies. “The power of the story lies in the hands of the victor, as they say.”

“Precisely,” the admiral replies, raising his teacup in Michel’s general direction.  “There’s also perhaps some talk of help from the Spanish and French navies as these scoundrels are harming all of our business, but we shall see.”

The meeting lasts for a few more minutes, then they’re dismissed. After Admiral Adams asks for a meeting with him again in the morning, he and the other naval and East India officers file out, leaving Javert alone with Baron Travers and Michel.

“Congratulations Javert,” Baron Travers says, clasping Javert’s shoulder, and he feels a pang of discomfort he’d rather not consider. “You are surely the right man for the job. I hear you’ll be the captain of your own ship soon.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, nodding. “Admiral Adams says it may happen in the next six months or so.”

“Well I’m sure you and Michel will make an even more formidable force. You’re both rising through the ranks,” the baron replies. “That is, if Michel continues obeying _his_ superiors.”

Michel’s face freezes, and Baron Travers pats the side of his arm, a smile rife with condescension curving his lips upward.

“Perhaps you will even find my grandson among the rogues in Nassau,” Baron Travers continues, and the casual tone shocks Javert. “He was so fond of talking to the riff raff down at the docks.”

“ _Andrew_ ,” Michel chides. “I do not think Rene has become a pirate, of all things.”

Javert blanches internally, watching Baron Travers fold his hands behind his back, pursing his lips.

“I am simply saying we haven’t looked there, and I for one, am willing to look anywhere for the heir to my line,” he replies. “He’s been missing for nearly 8 years now. Perhaps he’s been hiding in plain sight all along.”

“Perhaps,” Michel agrees, though it’s clear he forces the words out.

“Well gentlemen if you would excuse me, I have an appointment for tea with my daughter,” Baron Travers continues. “I’m sure I’ll see both of you later.”

Javert watches him go, and after a few moments his footsteps fade down the hallway.

“I’m sure Astra will be thrilled,” Michel mutters.

“It’s not my place to question you, Michel,” Javert says, careful with his words. “But is there something else that occurred between you and Baron Travers aside from the argument over the slaves recently?”

Michel sighs, his face scrunched in discomfort.

“He is still after us to have another child,” Michel answers. “He and Astra got into a shouting match a few days ago. She does not want another child. I perhaps could…” he stops, distance in his eyes, but then he shakes head. “I do not know how I feel on the topic. I cannot simply replace Rene. He was more than just a _continuation_ of my line. Frantz was more than a continuation of Arthur’s. They were… ”

Michel trails off, and Javert sees that sad smile he’s witnessed a thousand times before on his mentor’s face. It wavers for a few moments, then dies, extinguished by a mix of guilt and frustration. _Were_ , Javert thinks. He said _were_. Not _are_.

 “In any case, I am not the sort to…force this kind of intimacy on my wife,” Michel continues, clearing his throat.

“Does the governor…feel differently?” Javert asks, shifting in his chair.

“He feels it is her duty,” Michel replies. “And she feels he is still angry that she was not a boy, which is what he wished for. It is why, I imagine, he placed so much pressure on Rene.”

It is the first time Michel has voiced that particular sentiment out loud, though it’s been obvious for some time. Javert feels the desire to express his suspicious about Rene to Michel, feels it bubble up inside him, and after a moment, the thoughts burst out of his mouth.

“I think Baron Travers has a point about Rene,” Javert says, the words quick and unsure.

“Pardon?” Michel says, pausing a few seconds before responding, eyes going round.

“I…” Javert says, the usual crispness gone from his words. “A few years ago when I was interviewing that East India captain that Valjean’s ship attacked, you weren’t there, but he mentioned that he was injured by a young blond brat, as he put it. A sword cut to the arm.”

“Nicholas,” Michel says, and Javert hears the old lecture coming. “That could have been anyone.”

“I understand,” Javert says, pushing forward. “But a young man with that kind of skill with a sword? Who could injure a seasoned adult? The captain later told me he couldn’t have been more than seventeen or so. And then when I encountered Valjean he was hiding something. I asked him if he’d seen Rene, and he dodged the question. He said he’d never take in the son of an East India captain, but it seemed he was trying too hard to keep something from me.”

“Nicholas,” Michel repeats, voice gentler this time.  “You have excellent instincts. But are you certain this is not simple desperation to avoid what might be the truth?”

“The truth?” Javert asks.

“That the boys are possibly….dead,” Michel says, hesitating before the last word, voice heavy with tentative grief. “I assumed you partly took this assignment because of Valjean, and although I worry about your focus on him, I also know he has become extremely troublesome, so I still recommended you because it’s clear we need to arrest this man and his crew. But I did not know about this piece.”

“You have given up?” Javert asks, and unbidden he feels emotion well up in his throat, emotion he thought he buried when he tossed that ridiculous toy sword out into the ocean’s depths. It mixes with an anger as he remembers the night the boys ran away, remembers the gun going off and tussling with Rene, disdain and fury and pain in his eyes where there’d once been affection and joy and respect meant for Javert. He was furious at Rene that night, the level of it only matched twice before; when he thought his mother abandoned him, and when he’d let Valjean and Fantine escape. But then Rene, Frantz, and Auden were gone, disappeared to the ocean beyond. He thinks of his own mother, who came looking for him years after she thought him lost, and how he sent her away.

“No,” Michel says, voice cracked with a vulnerability that Javert suspects his mentor only allows him to hear. “But it has been a long time, and things are rough in this region. Even if Rene and Frantz aren’t dead, they may be so far gone that they are lost to me.”

“If we find them,” Javert insists. “We can bring them back, and we will _make_ them see the error of their ways. They owe you everything.”

Michel smiles, but it falters again, and he places a hand on Javert’s shoulder, then rises from his chair, fondness in his expression still. Not for the first time, Javert sees a reflection of the way Michel once looked at Rene.

“Congratulations on the assignment, Nicholas,” he says, straightening his hat. “I must get back to my office, but come around for supper tonight, if you’ve got the time. We’ll celebrate what I’m sure will soon be the awarding of your own ship, all right?”

“Yes sir,” Javert answers in an echo of his younger self.

He watches his mentor go, the door falling only part of the way closed behind him, and despite Michel’s disbelief in his theory, the grief on his face only makes Javert more determined. He doesn’t care if it takes years, but he _will_ find those boys, and if the pieces lead him to Valjean, he will accomplish two things at once. It is, after all, the least he can do after everything Michel Enjolras has done for him.

* * *

**Carribbean Sea. 1712.**

Fantine’s yawn is pronounced as she hands the wheel over to Enjolras.

“Tired?” Enjolras asks.

“We mere mortals do require sleep,” she jokes. “Though you seem to do better than most of us without.”

“I’ve always been one to stay up far too late into the night,” he answers, fingers curling over the spokes. “It did used to get me in trouble. My grandfather could always tell. So could Javert, if we had a sword lesson.”

Fantine must sense something in his voice, because she kisses the side of his head before he can protest, a twinkle of affection in her eyes.

“There’s some threats on our horizon,” she says, looking out at the water, and his eyes follow hers. “But you and I, we share an insatiable belief in this life we’ve chosen.”

“So we do,” Enjolras replies, looking over at her, and feeling that familiar ache of missing his mother.

“No matter what, we won’t let that go, even if we have to remind each other sometimes,” Fantine continues. “And I seem to remember a 16-year-old boy with a spark in his eyes when I met him six years ago.  They didn’t quench that in you then, and they won’t now. Remember that.”

“I will,” Enjolras says, a smile on his lips. “Thank you.”

“You’re always welcome,” she says, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “Try and get some sleep when you’re done here, all right?”

He nods, watching her go before turning back toward his solitude with the sea, the only other person awake to his knowledge the man up in the crow’s nest. He breathes in the air, smelling the salt, the night sky a canvas of dark blue-black above him, a few stars scattered across and a crescent moon casting a slice of light down on the deck a few feet away.

_Let me teach you how to steer. Would you like that?_

He hears his father’s voice in his head, remembers the larger hands wrapping around his own and placing them on the wheel, the tips of Michel’s fingers cold against his own warm skin. His life has changed so drastically that though the past remains a clear part of him, informs a great deal of what he does now, it doesn’t remain at the center of his mind as it did in the early days after he ran away with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Fulfillment and happiness are the norm now rather than the exception, and as he stands here even now, he feels that overwhelming feeling of freedom burgeon in his chest as the water laps against the ship. They were successful today, unexpectedly rescuing five slaves from an East India ship, and the battle itself had been one of the easier ones in recent memory. But worry inches into his heart when he recalls the news of the spy being sent to Nassau. That they are capable of rooting the man out he feels certain, but it’s a reminder that this battle is ongoing, that their enemies who seek to stop them are just as determined as they, and have society backing them up. Combined with the news of his father and Javert, it puts a rare damper on his usual resilience, and he finds nights at the wheel restorative to the spirit. If he stays here for just a bit longer, he’ll see the sunrise. He hears the wood creak behind him, sagging under someone’s footsteps and turns, seeing Prouvaire behind him.

“Jehan,” he says, smiling at his friend. “What are you doing awake? Combeferre’s set to take the wheel from me in an hour or so, unless he switched with you without telling me.”

“He didn’t,” Prouvaire answers, coming up beside him. “I simply woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep. It’s a nice night, I felt I should come on deck instead of wasting it below. Besides, it’s easier to see up here,” he says gesturing with his notebook and lantern.

“It is dark down there,” Enjolras answers.

“Perhaps if we have our own ship one day we can take the quarters instead of the hammocks,” Prouvaire jokes. “But better us sleeping in those than the older men aboard. But I have heard some talk of Valjean taking on consort ship.”

“There has been talk of that. Sometimes my back scarcely knows what to do with the bed in the house on Nassau,” Enjolras says. “It’s so used to the hammocks when we sail. But honestly, I slept in the captain’s quarters on my father’s ship, and there wasn’t much difference in the rocking on rougher nice. Just softer.”

“Like the sea’s not so gentle lullaby to us,” Prouvaire says, settling himself against the railing, pulling his knees up near his chest and resting his forearms on them, setting his notebook on the deck. “It’s always been poetic to me, how the same body of water can be calm one moment and crashing around us the next. How water is a source of life and a source of death all in one.”

“You do see the poetry everywhere, my friend,” Enjolras says, smiling over at Prouvaire as he adjusts his grip on the wheel, turning it to the right just slightly. “It’s one of my favorite qualities about you. Seeing the beauty in the broad strokes and the small.”

“So forthcoming tonight, Enjolras,” Provaire says, nudging Enjolras’ foot with his own, a glint of teasing in his eyes.

“Well,” Enjolras says, returning the nudge. “I never want to be remiss in reminding my friends of the qualities I admire. And what they mean to me.”

He clears his throat against the oncoming wave of emotion, but it crashes over him anyway, and Prouvaire allows him a few moments, several beats passing before he speaks again.

“You want your new family to know your feelings because your old one is in your thoughts,” Prouvaire says, a statement rather than a question. “It makes sense, given what we heard a few days ago.”

“Sometimes it seems like even though my life is a far cry from what it was, I cannot quite escape them,” Enjolras responds.

“Courfeyrac felt the same. He was worried about what effect the news would have on you and Combeferre.”

Enjolras smiles, warmth filling the cold spots in his chest at the thought of Courfeyrac.

“Though I suppose I am putting myself in their crosshairs given my choice of…profession,” Enjolras says, turning and raising one eyebrow at Prouvaire, who laughs, the sound pushing out and bouncing back against the sky and into the light breeze, the only sound other than the water against the ship.

“Inevitably,” Prouvaire says. “But you know if the day comes and we clash with them, we’re all behind you and Combeferre and Courfeyrac.”

“I know,” Enjolras answers. “I simply…the news that they’d captured so many pirates, the idea that Javert could be the spy…it cemented the idea that I will see them again, most likely. And we’ll be on the opposite sides of a battle.”

“You already were, my friend,” Prouvaire says, standing up now and leaning against the rail so he’s at eye level with Enjolras. “And you chose a side. Not only that, but you are doing something about it. My father cannot come after me, but I do know what that’s like.”

“So you do,” Enjolras responds. “Our pasts and our presents have many things in common.”

“And our futures, I should think,” Prouvaire says, eyes scanning the stars, and shifting his hair, long enough to braid now, over his shoulder. Hatless as he is, the starlight glints off the top of the light brown strands, some turned dark blond from the sun.

“I should hope so,” Enjolras says.

“What I try to think on, when the past, where I came from, bothers me,” Prouvaire says, his voice like the notes of a song Enjolras thinks he’s heard before. “Is to remember that we are not made up entirely of the places from whence we came, and you and I, we’ve let it drive us to be different people than our fathers. Perhaps to atone for their sins, even if they would not.”

Enjolras reaches out, grasping Prouvaire’s hand for a moment, and Prouvaire squeezes back. The gesture restores Enjolras’ courage, shaking out the unsettled feeling in his heart.

“Besides,” Prouvaire says, grinning with mischief now, and Enjolras sees Bahorel’s influence in the lines of his face. “We’d give them quite a fight if we did go up against them, would we not?”

“We surely would,” Enjolras answers, gripping the wheel tighter.

Prouvaire gazes at him a moment, and Enjolras tilts his head in question.

“I was just thinking how truly ferocious you are with your sword,” Prouvaire says. “As if every swing contains that better world we fight for. That kind of love is formidable. It is the kind they fear most because it cannot be broken.”

“I’ve never been able to articulate exactly how I feel in those moments,” Enjolras replies, experiencing one of those moments where he feels innately understood. “It’s so mixed in with the heat of the moment. But I’m glad you see it that way.”

“Ah, Enjolras you are made up of that sort of love,” Prouvaire says. “I recognized it in you almost instantly because it’s so rare. A burden and a gift all in one. Seeing the world as it could be, yet standing where you are.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “I think we all see it, don’t we?”

“Without a doubt,” Prouvaire replies, closing his eyes a moment as the breeze kicks up.

Enjolras hears footsteps behind him, Combeferre walking into his line of vision.

“You’re here early,” Enjolras remarks, stepping back from the wheel and letting Combeferre take hold.

“The ship was rocking a bit more than usual,” he answers, hands grasping the spokes firmly. “And that woke Joly and Bossuet up, and they started speaking in rather loud whispers about Musichetta. Then that woke Bahorel up, and he started saying something about some particular kind of trousers, I couldn’t make it out. Then that woke Grantaire up and he wanted to know where he could get said trousers. Then Courfeyrac woke up, heard them, and wanted to know what exactly the arrangement between Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta is. Gavroche slept straight through of course, snoring like no other. It’s a good thing Feuilly listened to Joly’s advice and shared Valjean’s quarters since he wasn’t feeling well, or he surely would have woken up, he’s already a light sleeper. So anyhow, I came up. Seems like Prouvaire was keeping you company.”

“He was,” Enjolras says, standing next to Prouvaire at the railing now, resting his elbows on the wood. “Helped me step away from my own thoughts for a bit.”

“A good thing, sometimes,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras sees his own musings and worries about the news they’d heard written in his eyes, the shared experiences that bound them coming around again. “Look,” he says, removing one hand from the wheel and point outward. “The sunrise.”

Enjolras looks up, seeing the orange-red light barely peeking over the horizon, the colors easing over the water and making the stars look dusty.

“Beautiful,” Prouvaire sighs, pulling out his notebook, and Enjolras and Combeferre share a fond grin.

“I remember sunsets like this on the Navigator,” Combeferre says, voice barely above a whisper, filled with an aching nostalgia for the good days among the bad, for the more innocent moments, and Enjolras sees Arthur mixed into his expression. “Though they seem far more beautiful here.”

“Nature made more beautiful by our own freedom,” Enjolras muses, and Prouvaire nods in approval.

“And the continuing fight in spreading that to others,” Combeferre adds. “A day at a time.”

“Hear hear,” Prouvaire proclaims, scribbling something down in his notebook, quill scratching against the parchment, the leather worn from the salty air.

A few moments later they hear more footsteps, and Enjolras turns, seeing Feuilly approaching, stretching his arms above him with a yawn.

“Combeferre was just saying he was glad you’d agreed to sleep in Valjean’s quarters tonight,” Enjolras says. “Since the others were making a racket. But you’re still awake.”

“I think Uncle Jean’s caught my head cold,” Feuilly says, sniffing. “So it made him snore rather a lot. I won’t tell him though, he’d feel dreadful. Didn’t expect to see so many people out on deck at this hour.” He smiles at each of them in turn, joining them around the wheel. “I’m just in time for sunrise, it seems.”

Enjolras looks out, watching some of the orange burst into reds, overtaking more of the sky. He feels Combeferre tug on his sleeve, taking one of Enjolras’ hands and putting his next to his on the wheel, each holding a spoke. Enjolras looks down at their hands, remembers studying the difference in their skin colors as a child, frustration racing through him as he realized more and more the injustices done to his dearest friend, who was smarter than anyone he’d met in his young life, a society set up to deny him. He remembers meeting pirates down by the docks, remembers seeing them sail equally under one flag, remembers telling Combeferre and yearning for that future. Now here they are, standing in its glow. More darkness lies ahead yet, the shroud of a society that remains their enemy hanging over them, but even in that black, Enjolras sees the flooding of the dawn.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, New Providence Island, the Bahamas. 1712.**

Valjean takes a sip of the wine in his hand, thinking this noise in this raucous tavern might make the roof explode. His eyes wander over the group in front of him; Fantine laughs at something Chantal said, tugging on the end of her braid. Combeferre stands next to them, smirking at the joke that Valjean couldn’t hear, drink in hand. Cosette sits in between Grantaire and Bahorel, having stolen the latter’s hat, and it sits far too large on her head. Joly, Bossuet, and Courfeyrac play cards at the bar, nearly knocking over their drinks each time they jump up in joy at winning a round. Prouvaire and Gavroche sit a few stools down from them, Prouvaire pointing and explaining some of the sketches in his notebook, and the normally boisterous Gavroche listens, eyes narrowed in thought. Enjolras and Feuilly stand nearest him, leaning with their backs to the bar. Enjolras sips his coffee as Feuilly tells a story, though Valjean can’t make it out over the noise.

Contentment settles in his stomach, but he cannot relax; he checks the room every few minutes, eyes watching for any strange behavior and keeping track of the door. There’s been no sign of a spy he’s seen in the six weeks since they heard the news, and he’s kept the crew land-bound for five of those weeks once they’d returned to Nassau. They’re all restless for missing sailing, and Valjean knows he can’t keep them cooped up here forever. Part of him thinks it’s safer for them to be away if and when the spy appears, but then on the other side of that, they’d miss the man if he was obvious, and that would leave him wondering.

 _You don’t know that Javert will be the man,_ Fantine said a few nights ago, finding him once again at the shore, thinking.

 _I just feel so certain_ , he’d responded, accepting the hand she placed on his back, a usual attempt at reassuring him.

“It’s ridiculous in here tonight,” he hears a voice say beside him. He turns, seeing Enjolras standing next to him, Cosette drawing Jahni over and putting Bahorel’s hat on his head instead.

“So it is,” Valjean answers. “I’ve heard at least four glasses break and saw two punches thrown.”

Enjolras laughs, taking another sip of his coffee, shifting his lengthening hair over his shoulder.

“You’re worried about the spy,” Enjolras says, searching his face in that piercing way Valjean’s grown used to by now.

“You are a perceptive young man,” Valjean answers. “And you are not worried?”

“I am inevitably concerned,” Enjolras answers. “But when I feel it grow, when I feel myself worrying it might be Javert, I remind myself of the people with whom I’ve surrounded myself. You have built quite the capable crew. And a family, at that.”

The affection in Enjolras’ words, the surety, makes Valjean smile.

“Not regretting your decision to join my crew then?”

“No,” Enjolras says, smiling himself now, a glint of Courfeyrac’s mischief in his eyes. “How could I, what with the superb sword lessons I received?”

“Ah so that’s what kept you on,” Valjean teases. “I was wondering.”

“Absolutely that,” Enjolras continues. “Certainly not the people. Or the shared ideals.”

“Certainly not,” Valjean echoes. “Ah, your cloth’s come loose there.”

Valjean reaches up, tightening the strip of thin black cloth Enjolras used to secure his hair, which slipped and slid down.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, eyes flitting up to the door, which creaks open, a noise that somehow cuts through the din. “It’s always falling…” he trails off, eyes widening as he considers the man who just entered, who he can just see through a small gap of the knots of pirates standing in front of them. The man, however, doesn’t look in their direction. Valjean follows Enjolras’ gaze, and at first he doesn’t see the cause for concern.

Then, he catches a glance of the man’s profile; tall, black hair tied back beneath a red bandana and a hat, though it’s shorter than Valjean remembers, and an expression, even at this distance and angle, that Valjean cannot forget.

Javert.

After a moment the rest of the group notices Valjean and Enjolras’ frozen expressions, moving in closer.

“Get behind the bar,” Valjean whispers in Enjolras’ ear. “Make sure Frantz and Auden are with you. Try not to draw too much notice.”

“What?” Enjolras questions. “Why…”

“Enjolras,” Bahorel says, hearing Valjean’s words and gesturing at the others to block Javert’s view. “When a man asks you to hide behind a bar you simply do it. Basic rules.”

Without another word Enjolras climbs over the bar, Combeferre and Courfeyrac following behind, though Courfeyrac’s foot catches, knocking over Enjolras’ half-full abandoned coffee mug, the glass shattering and black liquid spilling across the wood. The sound barely registers in the loud room, and Javert, who walked to a corner, doesn’t look up.

“Really, Fauchelevent?” the man behind the bar says, sighing. “You aren’t usually a troublemaker. This is at least the fifth glass of the night.”

“Apologies Davis,” Valjean says. “But if you could just…let them stay back there for a few minutes I’ll replace it myself.”

Davis shrugs, walking back down and tending to more men, the mess a lower priority.

“Valjean,” Fantine says, coming up to him. “Is that Javert?”

“Javert?” Chantal asks, voice barely audible. “As in Tiena’s son?”

“I’m afraid so,” Valjean answers.

“From what Frantz, Rene, and Auden have told me that man would be rather desperate to find them,” Chantal continues, fear glimmering in her eyes, mixed with resolute determination. “I won’t let him take my son and return him to Michel Enjolras. I won’t let him take Rene or Auden either.”

“Nor will I,” Valjean says, reaching out and grasping her hand in reassurance. I’m going to get him out of here as quietly as I can, before he sees the three of them, and before anyone else in here catches on.”

“I think they’re all a bit too intoxicated to notice,” Fantine says. “But yes.”

“Send Jahni and Cosette out the back and home,” Valjean says, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t want him noticing them and drawing any conclusions about who they are, either. Send Gavroche too, even if I know he won’t like it. Leave the rest and tell them to guard the bar, I’m sure they’ll be eager enough. Tell Rene, Auden, and Frantz not to come out unless you or I say so.”

“Be careful Valjean,” Fantine warns, holding his eyes for a moment. “You know how desperate he is. And how competent.”

“I know,” Valjean answers. “I will. Besides, I’ve got the advantage here, at least. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

“If you’re not back in three quarters of an hour at most, I’m coming after you,” Fantine says, her tone not to be argued with. “Where will you take him?”

“The beach near the docks,” Valjean says. “My guess is there’s a British Royal Navy ship anchored a few leagues away. Our reconnaissance was right.”

“And the others on the island?” Fantine asks. “They might not be so keen to let him go.”

“I know,” Valjean says. “But we’ll have to handle that later. Or tell them he got away from me.”

“A lie?” Fantine asks, smirking.

“They get the information that we were right about the spy, we don’t get the trouble for letting him go,” Valjean says.

“You _are_ a pirate,” Fantine says, fond.

“Indeed,” Valjean says, smiling at them before turning away, heart racing in his chest as he wills himself calm.

He wedges himself through the crowd, sticking to the edges of the room so he might avoid Javert’s gaze, though the man listens intently to the conversation next to him, his eyes not flitting toward Valjean. He makes his way into the corner where Javert sits, leaning down and speaking close to Javert’s ear.

“I think you might like to come with me, Commander Javert,” he says. “Or I suspect there will be some sort of trouble.”

Well-trained as he is, Javert doesn’t jump, but turns, eyes landing on Valjean as he straightens back up. His eyes narrow, but he’s not foolish enough to fight when Valjean seizes him by the sleeve, pulling him toward the door. Out of instinct rather than conscious thought, Valjean looks back, relieved that the boys are still hidden behind the bar, Jahni, Cosette and Gavroche having snuck out the back. But Javert’s eyes follow his gaze, landing on the broken coffee mug, the liquid still dripping down. Valjean jerks on his sleeve before Javert has a chance to make more than five seconds eye contact with Fantine.

“This place is a horrific mess,” Javert mutters. “Can’t even pick up spilled drinks, and you’ll have more insects in there than I’m sure you already do, going after the sugar in that coffee some drunken louse spilled.”

“None of my sailors put sugar in their drinks,” Valjean says, pulling him out the door. “And you might like to know that most of the men do their drinking on the island because they are only allowed limited drinking while at sea.”

“Oh of _course_ ,” Javert spits. “Thieves with morals, or so you think. Let go of me, Valjean.”

“Not yet,” Valjean says, keeping his stride brisk.

“Why did you look back before we went out the door?” Javert asks with the air of a person who thinks he already knows the answer.

“What are you talking about, Javert?” Valjean asks, feeling nerves rush through his blood again, but he keeps his voice steady.

“You looked _back_ ,” Javert insists. “As if you were worried I would see something you didn’t want me to see.” He stops, his eyes going wide as Enjolras’ had a few moments ago. “That drink that spilled…that was coffee. And you said none of your sailors put sugar in their drinks.”

“I looked back to make sure my quartermaster didn’t intend to come after you,” Valjean says, heading more quickly toward the beach. “Fantine would have every right, after how you treated her.”

“You have him, don’t you?” Javert asks, his voice taking an odd, frantic tone Valjean hasn’t heard before, even during their fight at sea a few years ago.

“Who, Javert?”

“Rene Enjolras,” Javert says voice a snarl as Valjean releases him. “He wouldn’t leave Frantz or Auden, so I imagine you have them too.”

“And you’re putting this together from what?” Valjean asks, making eye contact with Javert and hoping it doesn’t give him away, because looking down surely will. “That you heard rumors of a blond sailor on my crew a few years ago? I’ve already told you I don’t know him.”

“Rene always drank his father’s coffee as a boy,” Javert says, and Valjean hears the smallest split in the other man’s voice. “He never put sugar in his drinks if he could help it because he knew it was harvested by slaves.” His eyes look down at the lapel of Valjean’s coat, catching on something glinting in the starlight. “And there’s blond hairs on your coat. He got them all over mine like a shedding cat when he was a child.”

“You are grasping at something that isn’t there,” Valjean retorts. “You know better than to think those are clues.”

“Do not condescend to me, Valjean,” Javert says, stepping toward him, and Valjean puts a warning hand on the hilt of his sword. “You looked _back_.”

“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t take in someone like him or his friends,” Valjean says, but the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him he won’t convince Javert tonight, that he can only hope to get him off the island. “But it does sound like you cared about him.”

Javert scoffs, releasing a laugh that sounds more like a bark, and the break in the middle of the sound tells Valjean he’s right. “He is a foolish, selfish, disobedient _brat_ who I’m certain has turned into a criminal. Listen to me Valjean, I will take Rene and Frantz back to Rene’s father, and they will learn their lesson. The Courfeyrac boy can stay for all I care, he helped corrupt them in the first place. Perhaps it won’t be today, but it _will_ happen.”

“Why are you here, Javert?” Valjean asks, hand remaining on the sword, though he doesn’t draw, watching as Javert’s hand goes toward his own.

“As if I would tell you that,” Javert says. “But your den of thieves are foolhardy if you think that one day you won’t find this wretched place slipping away from you and returned to law-abiding hands.”

“It doesn’t matter what you found out,” Valjean says, stepping closer and matching Javert’s glare with his own. “If you think the pirates on this island weren’t on the lookout for a British spy, then you underestimate your enemy. You need to go.”

Javert stares at him as if he cannot process the last words, his near constant stream of arguments dying on his lips.

“Why?”

“Because if some of the men find you here and realize who you are,” Valjean says, frustration in his voice. “Then you will not survive the night. A Royal Navy officer who has sent plenty of their fellows to the gallows? Do not be foolish, Javert.”

“No,” Javert says. “Why are _you_ letting me go?”

“Because I do not enjoy killing, much as you may think otherwise,” Valjean says. “You are a man sent by his superiors to do a duty, and now you’ve done it. _Go_.”

“It’s because you know Rene wouldn’t want you killing me, isn’t it?” Javert says. “That’s why you’re letting me go.”

They lock eyes for a moment, an electric intensity crackling through the air around them, and Valjean thanks the darkness for masking his expression.

“Thank whatever you like,” Valjean responds. “But I’ll tell you again I’ve never met the boy and you need to go before I’m forced to sound the alarm. I’m certain your ship cannot be anchored far from here, and your entire crew will have hell to pay if they’re caught, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

Javert stares at him again, looking once more like that severe yet unsure young man Valjean first met before morphing into the man he is now, icy fury making his eyes look like shattered gray glass, though his voice grows solid again, betraying none of the emotion of a few moments ago.

“Mark me, Valjean,” he says, stepping so close now that they’re almost nose to nose. “I will track you down, I don’t care how long it takes. And you’ll be brought to pay for all the crimes you’ve committed. For your part in this selfish, criminal, disorderly hive of thieves with no respect for anyone or anything. You think they’ll all hold on to these ideals when the force of the world comes knocking at their door, do you?”

“I do,” Valjean says, hearing Fantine’s belief in his own voice. Hearing Cosette’s belief and Jahni’s and Rene’s. “Not everyone on this island is as idealistic as myself and my crew. Some are and some aren’t and we all have our ways. Some I don’t agree with, but most I do. But they we all believe in a different way of life, in more forward thinking. Have you ever even given thought to why we do what we do? Why Nassau exists at all?”

“I know why,” Javert tries, spitting the words. “Because…”

“Because we believe in something better,” Valjean interrupts. “Because that world out there, it tries to crush people. Your own navy press gangs sailors sometimes, you give your men no voice and you wonder why you lose them to us? Why you have trouble keeping loyalty and we don’t? Because we vote for our leaders, because our sailors can make money and sail and live in a more democratic way. Because we compensate men when they’re injured and because most of us allow men of all races to sail under our flag. Because we dare to challenge the status quo.” He holds Javert’s gaze, sensing the other man’s vulnerability. “Because we hold the belief that people aren’t bound forever with the stations to which they were born.”

Valjean watches Javert’s hand tremble for a moment upon the hilt of his sword at his last few words, then watches his face harden before he looks back in the direction where the Royal Navy ship hides, then back at Valjean.

“Hostis humani generis,” Javert says “The enemies of all mankind. That’s what you and your lot have been branded by every civilized nation. And the day will come when all of this,” he says, gesturing back at Nassau with his hand. “Will come toppling down.” And though his voice sounds steely, Valjean also thinks he’s trying just as hard to convince himself. “And when that day comes and I find you wherever you’re sailing with all the might of the world you fight against behind me, I know who else I’ll find. You cannot protect yourself forever, Valjean. And you cannot protect him, either.”

“Protecting myself matters little, protecting my crew means everything,” Valjean says, keeping his voice even. “Until we meet again, Javert.”

Javert holds his gaze for another moment before stalking off across the sand, not caring to run, and really, Valjean can’t help but note his courage for not turning tail, even here on this island full of his enemies. He also knows what a dangerous man that makes him, and he knows that one day, the confrontation between Javert and Enjolras is inevitable.

* * *

**Saint-Pierre, Martinique. 1712.**

Cosette hears her own laugh echo back at her in the silence of the night, spinning around in the sand and kicking some up at Courfeyrac, her shoes long abandoned.

“Cosette you devil!” Courfeyrac exclaims, holding up his arms in defense. “I’m wearing my new hat.”

“And how long until you lose it?” she teases.

Courfeyrac flicks her arm in response and Cosette laughs again.

“You would attack a lady?” she asks, reaching up for his hat and watching him dart away.

“Someone in these houses is going to attack us, if they hear you two,” Feuilly replies, but his affectionate smile gives him away.

“Is that why Papa sent you along, Jahni?” Cosette asks, walking up to him and slipping an arm through his. “To make sure we behaved?”

“Oh as if you are so ill-behaved yourself,” Feuilly says, laughing himself now. “He just likes there to be at least three of us, and I wanted to come along.”

“Technically,” Courfeyrac says, a sly grin on his face. “Aren’t we all ill-behaved? Pirates that we are.”

“Devils and black sheep,” Feuilly responds.

“A nation of thieves!” Cosette adds.

“That _is_ what they say,” Courfeyrac says, removing the bag of coins from his shoulders, chuckling. “It would appear we’ve arrived.”

Cosette takes the smaller bags out of her skirt pocket, and Courfeyrac puts some of the coins in them. They each walk along the street, depositing a small bag of coins on each doorstep. Cosette’s just put her last bag down when she hears a voice pierce the air behind her.

“Stop, thieves!”

Cosette spins around on her heel, just making out a young man and woman in the darkness, the former holding out a short sword that looks as though it’s seen better days. She can’t quite see their faces yet, but feels Feuilly suddenly at her side, and they watch as Courfeyrac approaches, walking forward themselves.

“You’ve caught us my good man,” Courfeyrac says, putting his hands up and indicating that he means no harm, though the young man still holds out the short sword, frowning. “Though, as you might notice, we are not in fact, stealing, but giving.”

The young man lowers the sword just a bit, and Cosette studies him, a smile slipping onto her face without her permission; his hair is jet black and wavy, one strand falling into his face, the rest just long enough to tie back. There’s a smattering of freckles across his pale skin, spreading from his nose to his cheeks. A sense of certainty strikes Cosette as she gazes at him, and she couldn’t say why, she has no logic to back it up, but something deep inside tells her that he _matters_.

“That may be,” the young woman says, and Cosette’s eyes move away from the young man. Something about this girl looks _incredibly_ familiar. “But where did you get the money you’re giving? It looks like a lot.”

“Ah now that I cannot divulge,” Courfeyrac says, trying his most charming grin, and the young man falters, lowering his sword entirely, though the young woman looks less impressed, running a hand through her dark brown hair that turns auburn at the edges.

“But we won’t harm you,” Feuilly says, offering his own smile. “So you can sheath that sword. Though if you could keep this to yourselves, we’d be most appreciative.”

The young man does sheath his sword, though his eyes flicker over to Cosette, widening for a second, and he looks almost breathless.

“Miss,” he says, trying to scowl again and not succeeding, looking at her like she’s a dream. “These two haven’t hurt you, have they?”

“Certainly not!” Cosette exclaims, stepping forward into the moonlight now, and the young man’s eyes widen again, and the young woman looks at him, a vague melancholy in her face. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she continues, gesturing at the dirk in her sash. “Besides, these are my friends. My family. Now,” she says, softening her voice and smiling at them. “Would you introduce yourselves?”

“I’m Marius Pontmercy,” the young man says, bowing a fraction, and Cosette watches Courfeyrac roll his eyes, though she sees fondness in the expression. “And this is my neighbor, Eponine Thenardier. We live on this street and saw you out the window.”

Cosette feels her stomach drop, eyes moving once again to the young woman. Her hands grasp her skirt out of instinct, sweat dampening the skin.

“Cosette?” Feuilly asks, putting a hand on her arm, no doubt recognizing the name Thenardier. “Are you all right?”

“I…” Cosette says, gathering herself, closing her eyes and swallowing back the hazy memories gathering in her mind. She squeezes Feuilly’s arm in reassurance, seeing the worry line his face, muscles tensing and ready to protect her. She steps forward, but Eponine’s heard Feuilly say her name, and her skeptical expression morphs into something Cosette doesn’t think she could name, but regret emanates out.

“Cosette?” Eponine says. “As in the Cosette that….”

“You knew as a child?” Cosette finishes. “Yes.”

She looks at Eponine more closely now; gone are the thick waves in her hair, gone are the chubby cheeks and the lively eyes. The girl standing before her now is as thin as Cosette was when she’d left that place, her long hair hanging limply past her shoulders, though Cosette still sees some of the curiosity in her eyes. A rush of empathy floods through her, so strong she puts a hand to her chest. Most of her early memories were of the Thenardiers, a cruel introduction to the world, her only solace the blurry memories of her mother and her own imagination. Now, it seems, the Thenardier’s cruelty spread to their own daughter.

“Do you two know each other?” Marius interjects, and Courfeyrac puts a hand on his arm, shaking his head, noticing the moment between them.

“Your brother is on board our ship,” Cosette says, throwing caution to the wind. “With my mother and adoptive father and our crew.”

“The people who came in to save you,” Eponine says, and Cosette hears intrigue in her voice, a warmth she isn’t sure she expected. “You _are_ pirates.”

Marius opens his mouth to speak and Courfeyrac shakes his head again.

“Gavroche is with you,” Eponine continues. “He ran away with that Bahorel fellow. Is he there too?”

“He is,” Cosette answers. She hesitates for a moment, putting out her hand and making a decision. “You should come with us. On the ship. Gavroche has been missing you.”

Eponine looks at her hand then back up at her face, hand lingering near Cosette’s but she cannot make herself grasp it just yet.

“First I was your friend,” she whispers, kindness in her voice. “But then I was cruel to you.”

“You were barely a year older than me,” Cosette says, shaking her head. “And under the influence and control of your parents. It’s not your fault. You could get away from them.”

Eponine stares at her, breathing fast, eyes widening again. Cosette steps closer, still holding out her hand. Another moment passes, the silence resounding around them, until finally, Eponine takes it, her grasp light and unsure.

“I don’t know anything about sailing,” Eponine says, words punctuated with uncertainty. “I don’t know that anyone on board your ship would want me there.”

“They will,” Cosette answers. “It’s what we do. And we can teach you about sailing,” she continues. “Of that I’m sure. Where is your sister?” she asks. “We can take her too. Away from here.”

“Azelma ran away last year,” Eponine says. “With a man. It was around the same time Marius moved to our street.”

“Wait a moment,” Marius says, looking around, nervous, the thoughts he’d held back exploding forth in a string of words. “You are pirates? And you are here leaving stolen money at people’s doorsteps? And Cosette and Eponine know each other? And Eponine is going to join you on your pirate ship?”

“I think you’ve got it all correct, my friend,” Courfeyrac says, putting an arm around Marius’ shoulders. Though confused, Marius doesn’t shake him off. “Now what might your story be? Pardon me for saying it, but that coat you have, though frayed, looks a bit well-made for this part of town. So does that ring.”

Marius looks down at the gold ring on his hand, twisting it around so the coat of arms is hidden. “My grandfather owns one of the largest sugar plantations on the island,” Marius says. “I left about a year ago.”

“Why, if you don’t mind my asking?” Feuilly asks. “It’s not exactly easy to make it on your own.”

Marius pauses, looking out at the ocean for a moment before looking back at them and squaring his shoulders.

“We had a falling out,” he explains. “He…he’d told me my father left when my mother died, and that he had no interest in me. But it turns out my father was involved in abolitionist activities and my grandfather didn’t approve. So he wouldn’t allow my father to see me. I found out, eventually. And then I left.”

“And your father?” Courfeyrac asks, a sadness in his eyes.

“I found him,” Marius says, voice wavering. “But he was dying already.”

Silence falls again, and just like that day they stumbled across Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac in the tavern, Cosette feels the meaning of this moment resonate within her.

“You should come with us as well,” Courfeyrac decides, breaking the quiet.

“I couldn’t,” Marius says, eyes going back to Cosette, and she smiles at him, raising her eyebrows, a blush creeping through his cheeks at the sight.

“Certainly you could,” Feuilly says. “I think you might find some common ground between us and your father, if you did.”

“But you’re _pirates_ ,” Marius insists.

“And perhaps better people than the papers would have you believe,” Cosette says, meeting his eyes. “Don’t you want a bit of adventure?”

Finally, Marius smiles. It’s awkward, but it’s real.

“All right then,” Courfeyrac says. “Is there anything the two of you need to retrieve?”

“Nothing that’s worth my parents catching me,” Eponine says, smiling tentatively at Cosette. “You, Marius?”

Marius shakes his head, swallowing, but looking determined.

“I sold most of my things to pay my rent,” he tells them. “Turns out my translation work only put food on the table.”

“Well that we have plenty of,” Feuillly says, leading the way back down the street. “Food, that is. This way.”

They walk back toward the shore, piling into the rowboat and making their way out to where there ship is anchored a quarter of league away. Cosette spots Gavroche sitting on the railing as he normally does. He sits up straight as they come closer, shock in his face as his eyes land on Eponine. He jumps off, landing on deck, watching their every move as they climb back up.

“Eponine,” he says, stepping closer to her but not reaching out. “What…why are you here?”

“Your friends convinced me,” she says, quirking one eyebrow. “Do you know how furious our parents were when you ran off?”

“Didn’t think they’d care,” he mutters, inching closer still.

“Think they just missed the extra pair of hands around the house,” Eponine says, drawing Gavroche’s gaze up from the deck.

“Well I don’t give a damn about that,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest in challenge.

Cosette watches Eponine frown, mirroring his stance, before her lips flicker upward.

“Turns out I don’t give a damn either,” she says. “Which is why I’m here.”

At that, Gavroche closes the gap between them, hugging Eponine quickly, his thirteen-year-old frame still shorter than hers. He steps back in an instant and trying to hide his smile.

“Brat,” Eponine says, her tone warm.

Eponine elbows him, and Cosette smiles at the reunion, looking up when she hears more footsteps on deck, eyes landing on her mother as she steps out from the captain’s cabin. Fantine’s eyes watch Eponine and Gavroche for a moment, putting the pieces together before they move to Cosette, a smile breaking out onto her face. Something propels Cosette forward, and she runs at her mother, launching her arms around her neck.

“I’m so proud of you darling,” Fantine says, her curls tickling Cosette’s face. “Look what you’ve brought together.”

“You taught me,” Cosette whispers. “You, and Papa.”

Fantine holds her closer, and in that moment, Cosette thinks she very well may burst with feeling.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a TEASE I know, but no Enjolras and Javert reunions until Book III. Javert is sort of in a detective novel and a pirate novel at the same time, isn't he? As far as my outline goes, there will likely be 2 more chapters in Book II, covering until about 1715, and then we will start Book III, which takes place in 1716.


	15. Book II (Coming Together): Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a hot day with no breeze and a barely moving ship, the crew of the Misericorde plays a game of pirate mock trials. Back in Kingston, Javert is promoted to captain, encountering some who doubt his merit because of his murky parentage. He encounters Astra around the time of Enjolras' birthday, and she leaves him feeling unsettled, and the subtle changes he sees in Michel even as they set out to search for more pirates, doesn't help. One night after Enjolras is injured in an accident during a storm and under rest orders from Joly, Enjolras and Combeferre have a heart to heart about the past. Finally, Valjean and Fantine secure a consort ship, bequeathing it to the Amis.

**The Caribbean Sea, near the coast of Florida. 1713.**

“It is too damn _hot_ ,” Grantaire complains from his place next to Courfeyrac, reaching back and swiping sweat off the back of his neck, the green bandana he wears keeping the rest of his hair out of his face. “It’s a damn good thing that haul we have isn’t perishable.”

That’s certainly true, Courfeyrac thinks. They’d tracked down a reasonably sized merchant ship they knew did some work for East India, but they’d surrendered the moment they saw the black flag, handing over their goods, which in this case was mostly silks and cottons, things they’d take back to Nassau to sell. 

“So it is, my friend,” Courfeyrac says, removing his own hat and wiping at his forehead with his arm. “Barely any wind in sight.”

“How many knots last we checked?” Grantaire asks. “I’m supposed to help the cook later and I don’t fancy going down below while we barely move and suffocating from the heat, if I had a choice.”

“Two,” Combeferre answers from Courfeyrac’s other side.

“Are you certain it’s not slower?” Grantaire responds.

“Quite certain,” Combeferre responds, and Courfeyrac hears the tell-tale sharpness in his voice that appears when he’s overheated or tired. “I have used a log-line a few times at this point. And unfortunately we still have a ways to go until Nassau.”

“Why aren’t we closer?” Grantaire asks, a whine in his voice.

“Because though longitude remains difficult to measure despite science’s best efforts, the latitude and longitude of New Providence Island remains the same,” Combeferre replies, looking at Grantaire over the rim of his spectacles with mild amusement. “Alas, the island has not moved closer.”

“Can’t we change course?” Grantaire asks, swatting at Bossuet as he tries leaning on him, clearly unwilling to accept the extra heat.

“No,” Feuilly says from his place sitting next to Enjolras on the deck. “We’re too near the coast of Florida as it is.”

“I’m sure I could like the coast of Florida just fine if there was even just a slight breeze,” Grantaire answers.

“There’s been too much trouble with Spanish warships in that area,” Feuilly answers, running a finger back and forth across the wood. “It was in the papers.”

“We could give them a run, possibly,” Grantaire says. “I’d be willing to risk it for a breeze.”

“I appreciate your faith in our skills,” Feuilly answers. “But I’d rather avoid their Man of Wars. Some of the ones in the Spanish navy have 75 or 100 guns. We have 35.”

“But the _breeze_ , Feuilly,” Grantaire insists. “The breeze. Besides I speak fluent Spanish perhaps I could talk them out of firing.”

“Not fast enough,” Feuilly says, chuckling. “We’ve done battle with the smaller Man of Wars before, and the ship needed a great many repairs. The larger ones with only one of us is something different. With two? There’d be a more solid chance, but as it stands, no.”

“What were you doing reading the papers anyway?” Grantaire asks. “They’re always full of oh so colorful stories about our sort. The crew my father sailed on used to use them for target practice, when they found them.”

“I learned to read from picking up newspapers,” Feuilly says. “So it’s habit. And besides, it’s good to know what they’re saying about us.”

“Even if they’re lies?” Grantaire asks.

“Especially if they’re lies,” Enjolras echoes.

Though Enjolras’ eyes remain on Prouvaire’s notebook that he’s reading through, Courfeyrac feels the melancholy expression on his friend’s face echoed somewhere within him. To see Enjolras and Jehan talk together, even though they do so quietly, is almost to see the multitudes of the future they see in front of them, reaching always from where the world is to where it could be, and it inspires Courfeyrac on the hardest days in these metaphorical trenches. Courfeyrac sees Grantaire’s expression soften as he looks at Enjolras, some part of him he keeps hidden away brimming to life for a moment.

“Why’s that?” Grantaire asks, drawing Enjolras’ gaze. There’s a slight teasing in his voice as usual, though it’s mixed with genuinely curious tone.

“So we can refute them when we have the chance,” Enjolras replies. “So we can gain the good will of the people living in this region. They can’t all join us but they can support us.”

“And that will help change things?” Grantaire asks. Courfeyrac hears no challenge in his voice; he hears skepticism Grantaire wishes was belief.

“People knowing the truth about us matters _greatly_ ,” Enjolras replies, a flicker of disapproval in his eyes, though it’s muted, given the tone in Grantaire’s voice he picks up on. “The things we’re fighting for and the things we’re fighting against. Even if they dislike our tactics, they might still like our ideals. There are already groups in London fighting against naval impressment, for instance, because they found out what was going on. The horror of it. And it compelled them to do something about it. The abolitionist movement has long existed for similar reasons.”

“Not everyone stands up in the face of the truth,” Grantaire says, and there’s a look on his face Courfeyrac thinks he doesn’t often let others see, a sadness in his eyes that sits at the root of him, just as real as the part of him that contains his laughter and his cleverness.

“No,” Enjolras says, eyes landing on Valjean, who stands at the wheel, a smile lifting his lips. “But it only takes enough people. It takes enough people willing to demand and fight for an equal share for their toil, demanding that all of the profit for that toil not go to a handful of men sitting above, or enough people standing up for the rights of others, to cause a change. It is one of the greatest differences between us and the way the various navies and merchantmen run their ships; we are brothers and sisters here, while those men are subjects. I think most people in their hearts, would rather side with the former if they understood it correctly.”

Grantaire pauses a moment, the doubt in his eyes mixing with a spark of something else, even though he doesn’t seem sure he can reach it, and Enjolras looks back, looking a bit bewildered by Grantaire’s expression, but his own does soften.

Grantaire’s about to respond when Bahorel swaggers over with Prouvaire and Joly in tow, one arm around each of the shoulders. His near-perfect black curls that Courfeyrac covets fall to the nape of his neck now, brushed back out of his face by his hat.

“It has been suggested by our dear comrade Joly that as we are scarcely moving and it is warm to distraction, that we might have a game of mock trials,” he says, eyes gleaming with mischief. “What do you all say?”

“ _Anything_ to distract from this heat,” Grantaire says. “I’m certainly in.”

“Who shall be the accused?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I had hoped Combeferre would indulge me,” Bahorel says, looking over. “Because I suspect he has a knack for the stage he won’t share. But I think I will simply hear a _no_ again.”

“Come now Bahorel,” Combeferre says, a fond smirk playing at his lips, quirking one eyebrow. “I would certainly be no better than you or Prouvaire. You are masters of an art. Besides, I have to help Asante with the log-line again in a half hour, but I can sit on the jury until then if you like.”

“Good man,” Bahorel says. “Perhaps I shall be the accused then, along with Prouvaire. Courfeyrac do be a dear and be my defense.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac says, giving an exaggerated bow. “Joly, will you be the judge?”

“My favorite role!” Joly exclaims, and Courfeyrac can’t help but grin. “Marius should be the prosecution, his facial expressions are excellent.”

“I suppose that leaves us to join Combeferre on the jury,” Bossuet says to Enjolras, Feuilly, and Grantaire “The most excellent spot for heckling. Perhaps we can get Cosette, Eponine, and Gavroche to be the courtroom observers. And Fantine, if we’re lucky.”

“I don’t think I’d make a very good juror,” Feuilly says, attempting to sidle away, but Bossuet seizes him by the arm, mirth in his eyes.

“Nonsense my good friend, you would be the most discerning juror,” Bossuet says. “Now do us a favor and see if you can’t convince Fantine to join us, I think she likes you best.”

“Oh,” Feuilly says, shoving Bossuet lightly in the arm but doing as asked, looking pleased.

“So,” Courfeyrac says, turning to Enjolras. “Do you think you will convict Bahorel and Prouvaire?”

“Oh well I’m not certain,” Enjolras says, a half smile sliding onto his face, and Courfeyrac sees within them the 12-year-old version of his friend he met at that infamous party, a ray of love shining out through his serious expression. “I’ll have to hear the evidence.”

Courfeyrac laughs, turning toward Marius, who speaks with Cosette, both standing a few feet away. Marius appears in a near constant state of blushing and although Cosette’s smile is shy, the look in her eyes shows she’s pleased at the effect she has on him. At twenty-one, she’s blooming fully into herself. A bit down from them, Eponine and Gavroche stand near the wheel watching Valjean, who’s showing them a few things about steering. Eponine looks back at Marius and Cosette with a slightly melancholy expression, though the expression in her eyes when she looks at Marius now, as opposed to when they’d stumbled across them several months ago, is less pronounced, and her lips flicker up into a tentative smile when she looks at Cosette.

“Marius!” Courfeyrac calls out. “We require you to be one of the barristers. Cosette, if you could gather Eponine and Gavroche and be the courtroom observers?”

“Mock trials!” Cosette exclaims, curls bouncing as she clasps her hands together in excitement before dashing off toward Eponine and Gavroche.

Marius walks toward Courfeyrac, readjusting his hat, still looking a bit awkward in his boots.

“She was teaching me about the way the shares and things work on pirate ships,” Marius explains, his tone maintaining that dreamy quality Courfeyrac’s grown used to and fond of in the short time they’ve been aboard. “It’s all truly fascinating.”

“It is,” Courfeyrac says, slow and teasing with his words. “But are you sure you weren’t talking about oh, the fact that I saw you kissing near the bow last night in the dark?”

“You saw?” Marius says, flabbergasted.

“I have excellent eyes,” Courfeyrac answers. “You are my friend Marius, and Cosette can certainly take care of herself, which I’m sure you’ve noticed, but you’d best make sure you treat her well. You just _had_ to fall in love with a girl who has a multitude of adoptive brothers a pirate adoptive father and a pirate mother.”

“I would never do anything to hurt Cosette,” Marius says, concerned now. “I swear it.”

“Good, because Fantine would have your head,” Courfeyrac continues, doing his best not to smirk.

“I’m more worried about Valjean,” Marius says, fiddling with the ends of his hair, which is brushed back less severely than before, but still more so than anyone else’s.

“Fair enough, but trust me,” Courfeyrac says, glancing over at Fantine, who has stolen Bahorel’s hat and now holds it out of his reach. “Fantine is far more frightening when angry. Usually.”

“Are you trying to frighten me to _death_?” Marius complains.

“Of course my friend,” Courfeyrac says, eyes twinkling and drawing a chuckle out of Marius. “Of course.”

They all settle into their positions, and Courfeyrac looks over, seeing that Fantine has in fact joined them, sitting with Cosette, Eponine, and Gavroche. She gestures at Valjean, who stands at the wheel with his sailing master now that Eponine and Gavroche have joined them, silently bidding him to come over. He shakes his head, trying not to smile. At this Fantine rises from her spot on the deck, walking over to Valjean and seizing his sleeve and Courfeyrac can barely contain his laughter at watching this petite woman drag a man who is over six feet tall across the deck to the delight of her daughter and Gavroche. Eponine smiles wryly at the sight, and mid-laugh, Cosette casually loops their arms together.

Once it falls quiet, Joly takes his cue and walks in a slow, deliberate circle around Prouvaire and Bahorel.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” Joly calls out. “You are here today to hear evidence against these two unrepentant thieves and decide their guilt. Their sentences will be carried out swiftly if they are pronounced guilty, I assure you.”

He stops in front of them, giving them his best disapproving glare.

“You wretched pirates,” Joly continues. “Are accused of rampant thievery, murder, licentiousness and a host of other crimes!”

“Hang on,” Bahorel calls out. “You’re already calling us wretched _and_ pirates, that’s a bit biased. We’re just charged with piracy as of right now.”

“Silence, pirate!” Joly exclaims, smacking his hand down on the rail and then shaking it when he realizes he’s done it too forcefully. “Or I will request to have you both denied trial and send you straight to the gallows.”

At this Gavroche throws a few stray pieces of parchment in Joly’s direction, and the latter bursts into a fit of laughter, hopelessly attempting to dodge them.

“Order!” he tries, only to be swept back up into his amusement.

“Gavroche is doing a better job heckling Joly than I am,” Bossuet says. “I’m not sure I can allow that to stand. He’ll tell Musichetta when we get back to Nassau, and then they will both tease me endlessly.”

“You’re the juror, Bossuet,” Prouvaire protests, hands bound loosely together for effect. “You’re supposed to be unbiased.”

“But is anyone really unbiased in the courtrooms where these happen?” Eponine asks. “From my experience most people have their minds made up about things so maybe the heckling is really true to life.”

“See there?” Bossuet says, winking at Eponine in a way that most people would assuredly not get away with, but Bossuet’s particular charms allow him. “Listen to Eponine.”

“Perhaps the prosecution,” Courfeyrac says, stepping forward and pointing dramatically at Marius. “Has paid off Judge Joly to make sure these men are hung in the harbor as pirates to further his own fiendish ends. Perhaps he and the judge have conspired to select jurors who will automatically send these men unjustly to their deaths!”

“Disregard that claim, jurors,” Joly says, having recovered himself. “The defense speaks nothing less than madness.”

“But should we?” Feuilly asks, crossing his arms over his chest and doing his best not to grin, much like Valjean a few moments ago. “If the two of you are colluding that’s a vital piece of evidence. We need to know.”

“Ah see Feuilly,” Bossuet says. “I told you what a discerning juror you would be.”

“I have done no such thing,” Marius interjects, and Courfeyrac turns toward him, staring him down in an attempt to make him laugh and forget his words, but to his annoyance, it doesn’t work, for Marius takes his role seriously. “Let us not forget who the real criminals in this room are, after all, these two pirates.”

“And if we are?” Prouvaire says, throwing a hand over his heart. “Perhaps we are the ones in the right, and _you_ in the wrong.”

“Hear hear!” Grantaire shouts, standing up and raising his fist into the air.

“Order or I will accuse you of sympathizing with pirates, Grantaire,” Joly says.

“I would like to see you try, Joly,” Grantaire replies, and Bossuet snorts with laughter.

“We will not be the pawns of other men,” Bahorel adds, putting an arm around Prouvaire’s shoulder and doing a much better job of containing his laughter than Joly, though Courfeyrac sees it gleaming in his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Joly says, trying to keep his expression solemn but unable to keep the laughter from making his words shake as Bossuet and Grantaire start fake crying in the background. “But it matters not who is morally correct, it matters that you are pirates and for that, if the jury decides it you shall hang from the gallows.”

In order not to deprive Bahorel and Jehan of their knack for death scenes, Enjolras, Combeferre, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Bossuet hand down a guilty verdict. They both shout _hoist the colors high_ before falling simultaneously to the deck, and everyone erupts in applause. Courfeyrac laughs, seeing Fantine come up beside him.

“Apologies for your loss in court,” she says, bumping him with her hip. “I’m sure you must be devastated.”

“Yes terribly,” Courfeyrac answers. “I’m glad you got Valjean to join us.”

“He needs reminding sometimes that among all of our work he is allowed to enjoy himself,” Fantine answers. Her eyes fall on Prouvaire and Bahorel, who are both now propped up on their elbows on the deck.

“Well I needn’t worry if we actually face threat of the gallows,” Bahorel jokes. “I’m certain Fantine would rescue us if need be.”

“You’ve found me out,” Fantine says, reaching out and moving a piece of Bahorel’s hair out of his eyes before pulling back, realizing herself. She clears her throat, crossing her arms over her chest. “But do kindly save me the trouble, Bahorel, it would take a great deal of effort.”

Bahorel blushes as she walks away and Courfeyrac clasps his hand over his mouth, stifling a burst of laughter.

“Quiet Courfeyrac,” Bahorel says, flicking him in the side of the head.

“So much romance in the air lately,” Courfeyrac says, ignoring him. “Marius and Cosette, Joly, Bossuet, and Muschietta. Though it appears you are playing the long game, my friend,”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re nosy?” Bahorel quips.

“A few times,” Courfeyrac admits.

“More than few,” Combeferre says, dry, and he receives an elbow to the ribs from Courfeyrac for his trouble.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks, confused when he hears Combeferre gasp and reach back out to retaliate.

“Affairs of the heart, my friend,” Courfeyrac says, putting an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Ah because Bahorel wants to woo Fantine?” Enjolras asks.

Bahorel and Courfeyrac both stare at him in surprise.

“Just because I’m not interested in that kind of relationship myself it doesn’t mean I don’t notice the goings on of my friends,” Enjolras says with a shrug. “Perhaps if you weren’t so obvious.”

Courfeyrac bursts out laughing again, and Bahorel grins, tugging gently on the end of Enjolras’ hair.

“You are ever a surprise my friend,” Bahorel says. “I’m afraid I’m rather terrible at being subtle, though. Though if the lady ceases returning what I _think_ is the same sentiment, it’s still a bit of mystery, then I too shall cease, of course.”

“As any gentleman would,” Courfeyrac says.

A few moments later Courfeyrac feels a breeze on his face, strong this time.

“The wind!” he exclaims. “Finally it’s with us.”

He watches Combeferre reset the hourglass, frowning in thought as Asante the sailing master sets the log line, watches Enjolras join Feuilly in helping the boatswain with the sails, a thrill in both their eyes, and something about the sights in front of him draw him back to that night they escaped Port Royal, with no idea what lay ahead, only ideas of what they hoped for. As he hears orders called out, hears the wind finally blowing past him and blowing speck of salt water on his face, he thinks that this is what it feels like when those hopes are realized, set against the music of his friends’ laughter.

* * *

 

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1713**

Javert curses the position of the blasted sun, raising his papers over his head and blocking the light, so he might examine some of the rigging on the quarterdeck. He drops his quill onto the leather satchel resting at his feet, removing his hat and placing it on top, sweat beading at his hairline. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the pirate hung in effigy in the harbor, giving a sign to anyone who sails near that pirates aren’t welcome in Kingston. Sometimes the royal governor leave the bodies of real pirates there, but if Javert is honest with himself, he finds that a bit uncivilized.

“Well if it isn’t _Captain_ Nicholas Javert,” a voice calls out from behind him. Javert turns, seeing one of Michel’s former crewmen behind him, an insincere smile on his face. The troublesome third son of a middling aristocrat, he’d been made quartermaster on another East India ship a few months previous to a near disastrous effect; the men disliked him and he failed to negotiate disputes, so he’d been demoted, much to the chagrin of his family.

“Williams,” Javert says, turning from his work, annoyed at the interruption. “What might I do for you?”

“I only hoped to see your new ship in all its glory,” Williams answers. “I’d heard rumblings of your promotion.” He stops, eyes gazing over the ship with envy. “She’s beautiful. What’s her name?”

“The HMS Chase,” Javert answers.

“How many guns?” Williams asks, and Javert feels his irritation spike.

“40,” Javert answers. “Certainly enough to keep up with the pirates we’re after, unless they’ve managed to steal a ship of the line.”

“The Royal Navy didn’t see fit to give their grand pirate hunter a Man of War, then?” Williams asks, and Javert hears the disdain in his voice.

“Not as fast,” Javert says. “The biggest part of the job is being able to catch them, after all.”

“Heard you and Commodore Enjolras sent another ship of pirates to their ends,” Williams answers.

“We sent them to the courts,” Javert answers, turning back to the rigging again. “They decide their sentences.”

“You’ve seen as many pirate trials as I have, Javert,” Williams answers. “You know their fates are set as soon as they arrested. If there are trials it’s to humiliate them before they die.”

“They’re to be made an example of,” Javert says, narrowing his eyes and turning back around again. “Feeling sympathetic to pirates, Williams?”

“Hardly,” Williams scoffs. “They’re criminals. All I’m saying is perhaps you need to admit this is a dirty business we’re involved in, isn’t? You can sit at Baron Travers’ dinner table and shine your medals and this new ship, but your hands are as bloody as the pirates you fight against, aren’t they? There’s death all over them. None of us can really escape it. It’s our world now, but suppose it’s theirs in the future? I suspect you wouldn’t be willing to bend, if that changed.”

“I really don’t have time for your musings, Williams,” Javert snaps. “I’m a bit busy inspecting my ship, so unless there’s a problem…”

“No problem,” Williams says. “I just find it…interesting, shall we say, that I’ve been sailing nearly as long as you have, and yet look at you? A navy captain with the favor of Admiral Adams. And I’m still in the middling ranks of East India. How is it that the son of some unknown parentage ends up ahead of someone like me, who ought to have what you do by right?”

“You were never the most dedicated officer,” Javert says, ignoring the slight. “Perhaps that’s why.”

“I don’t bow down at Michel Enjolras’ feet,” Williams says, stepping closer as if in threat, but Javert doesn’t budge. “We all thought his support of you would end, you know, when you let his son and Combeferre’s get away. But you must have him wrapped around your finger.”

“I did not _let_ …” Javert growls losing his temper a moment. He swallows, breathing in and controlling himself. “Commodore Enjolras has been a great mentor to me,” he continues. “But I’m sure he would tell you himself of his belief in my merit. I do not appreciate your implications.”

“They’re not implications if they’re true,” Williams argues. “You, who came from some murky background, who got transferred to our ship because you let a slave and a convict escape. You rose up this high because of his patronage. I that heard also heard your assignment on Nassau didn’t go as well as planned.”

Javert sees that night on the shores of Nassau with Valjean in his mind’s eye in a flash of bright color, remembers the broken coffee cup, the blond hairs, the fear in Valjean’s eyes. He remembers walking around Nassau in that ridiculous pirate garb, finding himself once again with the sorts of people he grew up among. This only causes him to remember his mother’s devastation the night he sent her away from his office, and he shoves the memory aside.

“I am now captain of my own ship, so that is clearly a falsehood,” Javert replies, straightening his posture. “I found out some important information concerning the still functioning fort that stands on the island. The rest of is not information you are privy to.”

“My but you are up on that high horse,” Williams seethes. “You are sensitive about the pirates, aren’t you?” he continues, latching onto the vulnerability showing in Javert’s face. “Is that the background you come from? Perhaps you fight so hard because it’s all you can do not to join them.”

“Get off my ship _immediately_ ,” Javert says, breathes coming in and out quickly through his nose as he controls his rage.

“Don’t be rude, Javert,” Williams says. “I…”

Williams is cut off by the sound of another voice, and Javert looks up, seeing an unexpected face approaching.

“Are you bothering Captain Javert, officer Williams?” Astra asks, her gaze as disapproving as her son’s sometimes was.

“Madam Enjolras,” Williams sputters, surprised at her presence.

“Because if you are, you can be certain I’ll report the error to my husband,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You may be on another crew now, but Commodore Enjolras in still the superior officer over your captain. I’m sure you don’t want him hearing that you were making accusations against his good friend the navy captain?”

“No,” Williams says, wilting under Astra’s glare. “Good day.”

He nearly runs off the ship and Javert watches his progress down the gangplank before turning his gaze back to Astra, feeling sufficiently awkward.

“Thank you, Madam,” he says after a moment, wondering what she’s doing here. “Might I ask what brings you to the docks?”

“Michel left some papers on the dining room table, and I’m on the way to meet some friends in town, so I thought I’d drop them at his office myself,” she explains, looking at him in the way he grew used to once he knew her, as if she could read every thought in his mind, and yet he could understand nothing of her.

“I haven’t seen you often at the meals Michel’s invited me to over the past few weeks,” Javert says, searching for conversation.

“I’ve been either out or ill the past few weeks,” she supplies, but there’s a flicker in her face, giving her away. Javert remembers that Rene’s birthday approaches over the next few days, and each year both Michel and Astra mourn his absence.

 “Well,” Javert says, looking back up at the rigging again, wishing she’d stop looking at him like that so he doesn’t have to consider why, so he can get back to his work. “I hope it’s nothing that bothers you for too long.”

“You know most captains would have their men make note of the repairs that needed doing,” she remarks. “Yet you are here yourself.”

“I suppose I am not like other captains,” Javert replies. “I enjoy the work.”

“That does not surprise me,” she says, and there is an echo of fondness in her weak smile. “Congratulations on your promotion. And your own ship, of course. When I do see Michel, it is one of the things he speaks of most.”

Silence falls between them again, thick and uncomfortable for all the things they will not say to each other. It is strange, Javert thinks. He’s been present for so many of Astra’s vulnerable moments, and in some respects, she for his. He knows all her intimate family troubles either because he was a part of them or Michel otherwise confided in him, he’d been her son’s sword instructor, he’d watched after him on countless occasions, and yet here, on this deck, they can talk of none of that. Propriety prevents it, and his own reservations drive the nail in further.

“I know you didn’t require my assistance with Williams,” Astra finally says after a few moments. “I simply…I couldn’t help but think that if Rene knew I walked past when someone was being that rude to you, he’d be disappointed if I did nothing.”

Javert stops himself from scoffing aloud. Rene had certainly been rude to Javert _himself_ enough times. He knows better than to voice that idea to Astra, and she speaks again before he has to respond.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking away for a brief moment. “It’s simply that his birthday is approaching and I miss him. Even more than usual.” She looks back at him, and he fears the next words out of her mouth before she even says them.

“Do you?” she asks, and there’s that piecing gaze again. “Miss him?

His stomach drops and he clenches one of his fists, feeling that familiar anger flood through him even if he refuses to name it.

 _He left you_ , the voice says inside his head. _He left Michel. In his selfishness._

He looks at her, hesitating, seeing something odd in her eyes, something like guilt mixed with that look she always has, the look of someone hiding something. The look of someone who holds more secrets than she can stand, but she endures them anyway.  He cannot tell her of his suspicions about Valjean; only Michel knows them, and it will stay that way until he has proof. Besides that, Michel only gives them the smallest credence, and it’s the one thing Javert’s ever truly felt frustrated with him about. He’s spared an answer by the sound of one of his men calling to him.

“Captain Javert!” the officer calls out. “We need you to sign these papers, sir.”

“I’m afraid I must take my leave,” he says, inclining his head. “A pleasure to see you, Madam Enjolras.”

“Captain,” she says, looking sad again as she nods.

He watches her go, the edge of her royal blue dress hovering just above the deck, blonde hair done up so neatly that he’s shocked the wind doesn’t blow the pieces loose. He walks over to the officer that called out to him, taking the papers he’s offered and signing them. He hands them back over, eyes falling on the docks. He sees Michel approaching Astra, taking the leather case full of papers from her and offering a smile. She smiles back, though it’s tight, says something Javert cannot hear and turns to go. Michel watches Astra leave, eyes following his wife until she’s out of sight, but he doesn’t take any steps forward to follow her in person. Michel frowns, looking down at the ground before his eyes rove upward, catching on the ship and then on Javert. He raises his hand in greeting, pauses, then walks down the docks toward the ship. Javert looks back down at the beach, seeing hazy images of two heads bowed together in the sun, one light and one dark, their laughter scattered through the air, laughter that once put a bounce in Michel’s step, in Astra’s step.

He doesn’t admit the sound also once put one in his own.

“All right, Nicholas?” Michel asks as he approaches, taking a look at his pocket watch for a moment before looking up, running his finger across the inscription on the inside of the cover which reads, _Bon vent et bonne mer_ , or _fair winds and a following sea_. Arthur gave it to him on the occasion of Rene’s birth, Javert knew, and he scarcely ever saw Michel without it.

“Astra said Williams was bothering you,” Michel continues. “Anything I need to speak to his captain about?”

“Just petty jealousies,” Javert answers. “Nothing to worry about.” He gestures at the piece of parchment in Michel’s hand. “Something important in the mail?”

“Oh,” Michel says, seemingly forgetting that he was holding something. “Just a letter from my older brother telling me he’d gotten back to France safely.”

“I’m glad he’s well,” Javert says, remembering how much happier Michel looked during the rare visit.

“He reminds me again at the ends how much he wishes I’d return to France,” Michel says answers. But I have assured him before that until…” he trails off, not finishing the sentence. “Well in the end, I cannot simply leave my life here. Speaking of, are you ready for sail tomorrow?” Michel asks, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms, hat under tucked them, some pieces of hair falling loose out of the tie. The stance reminds Javert of a younger Michel, less straight-backed and less drawn. “We’re set to leave early, though we’ll be without the consort ship, as there’s some illness among Captain Andrews’ crew, unfortunately. There were a few problems on the _Navigator_ , but they should be fixed in the next couple of hours.”

“Nearly,” Javert answers. “Just making note of some repairs so the men can tend to them beforehand.” He pauses, then pushes forward. “Michel?”

“Hmm?” Michel asks, eyes lingering on the same spot on the beach that Javert looked at a few moments ago.

“Do you think I’m prepared for this captaincy? That I deserve it?” The words come out in a rush, different from Javert’s normal clear syllables, sounding like the young man he’d been when they met rather than the man he is now.

Michel tears his eyes away from the beach, focusing on Javert. “Something Williams said _did_ bother you,” he replies. “Well, whatever he said isn’t true, of that I’m certain. And of course I do. There is no question you are completely qualified. Is this about you still feeling as though you failed in Nassau? You had no choice but to go once you were caught, or you’d have never made it out alive from those scoundrels. Part of me thinks that Valjean man _likes_ the chase, or I’m not sure why he’d let you leave.”

“No, that’s not it,” Javert says. “I only…Williams implied that I was only given this ship because of your…affection for me, I suppose.”

He clears his throat as he speaks the words; that Michel cares about him there is no question, but though Michel is sometimes prone to voicing the sentiment, Javert is not naturally inclined, his own affection for Michel voiced in a loyalty he has always considered unwavering.

Michel looks at him again, placing both hands on his shoulders, the sincerity in his expression striking Javert so forcefully that it almost feels painful.

“That you are my my comrade, and my friend is without a doubt true,” he begins. “That I care about you as I do my own family. But I took notice of you in the first place because of how dedicated a sailor you were. I saw the potential in you to be a talented officer, and I was right. You have worked tirelessly, and now you are seeing the fruits of your labors. Trust in that.”

 _You will be a thief just like me lad,_ Javert hears his father say. _Just wait._

“Thank you,” Javert says, picking up his papers and making a note of the needed cordage repairs. “I will.”

Michel looks away again, eyes drifting toward a group of Royal Navy officers walking down past the docks, two young boys who can’t be more than thirteen in their midst. Javert watches Michel frown, disquiet in his eyes, the expression reminding him strikingly of Rene, and the idea unsettles him.

“The admiral is allowing quite a bit of impressment, recently,” Michel murmurs, almost off-hand, pushing a piece of blond hair behind his ear.

“You don’t like it,” Javert say.

 “It’s not my business, I imagine, and I know it’s been done on some East India ships,” Michel continues, turning back to Javert. “But I wouldn’t allow it on my ship. You know that.”

It’s not quite an answer, Javert thinks, and for a moment he sees the smallest spark of anger in Michel’s eyes as he continues watching the men. It’s gone as soon as it came, replaced by a more familiar smile.

“Let’s take a walk around the ship,” Michel says, looking proud as he surveys Javert. “See what needs repairing. Take in the moment, shall we?”

Javert nods, picking up his satchel, putting his hat back on his head and straightening out his papers. His eyes move across the ship, catching on the sails and the wood and the rigging and the wheel, feeling pride swell in his chest. But even as he steps forward into this new future, the past pulls at his heart despite his best efforts, and as he looks out at the sea, he knows that soon, they’ll collide.

* * *

**The Caribbean Sea. 1713.**

The storm isn’t the worst he’s seen, but Combeferre’s stomach still sinks when he hears the first crash of thunder. The good news is they’re only a few leagues out from Nassau, but they cannot avoid dark clouds starting to spit rain down on them.

“Looks like my training under the carpenter is going to be put to some use after this,” Bossuet jokes, coming up beside him. “There’s some weak spots in the wood already that need repairs, and this won’t help. We were going to careen and clean off the barnacles when we reached Nassau.”

“Well you are the man for the job,” Combeferre says, clasping Bossuet’s shoulder. “You took to it quickly.”

“Worked with metal for so many years that it made it a bit easier, just a new material,” Bossuet answers. “My boots might fall overboard but I _can_ mend this ship. Though cleaning off the barnacles is fairly disgusting, I will say that.”

“How did your _boots_ fall overboard?” Combeferre asks.

“I took them off, a wave came,” Bossuet says, shrugging. “Borrowing an extra pair until we get back. Bit big, but they’ll do.”

“Feuilly and the boatswain are going to have their hands full,” Combeferre says, pointing up as the wind starts pushing at the sails. We’ll be all in the wind if this keeps up.”

“Indeed they are my friend,” Bossuet says. “Indeed they are.”

They hear orders called out and go to their stations. A few minutes later, the rain coming down harder now, Combeferre spots a problem in some of the cordage of the rigging near the bow, running over toward it and nearly colliding with Enjolras.

“Seems we saw the same problem,” Combeferre says. “I can tend to this, you go help Feuilly.”

“No, I’ve got it,” Enjolras argues, and Combeferre feels a flicker of irritation. “I’m taller.”

“Rene we are essentially the same height, you perhaps have an inch,” Combeferre says. “Just…”

“I’m going up,” Enjolras says, uncharacteristically ignoring him, climbing a small ways up the ropes and looking back down at Combeferre for a split second. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

The wind howls again and Combeferre stays put, watching Enjolras secure the stray line. Then a rather ferocious wave hits the side of the ship and it rocks much harder than before, giving an ominous creak. Combeferre watches the water smack the exact area where Enjolras climbs down, and his grip on the cordage slips, his feet falling out from under him. He’s still close enough to the deck that Combeferre tries reaching out to break the fall, but his own feet slip on the wet wood and Enjolras falls, hitting the deck hard and landing on his side. Combeferre reaches out in an instant, sliding to his knees on the slick deck.

“Rene,” Combeferre says, calm in his voice even as he feels his heart beat frantically, putting a hand against Enjolras’ cheek, relieved a fraction when Enjolras opens his eyes and meets his gaze. “Do you feel like anything’s broken?

“No,” Enjolras answers, wincing and reaching for his head. “It was a short fall, but my head….”

Combeferre looks up, seeing blood streaming down from a wound on the side of Enjolras’ forehead. He’s learned from Joly that most head wounds look far worse than they are, but it doesn’t stop worry from pricking in his chest. He hears Valjean’s voice behind him, deep and loud, raising it so he’s heard over the wind.

“What happened?” he asks, crouching down and placing a gentle hand on Enjolras’ back. Combeferre remembers how long it took for Enjolras not to flinch involuntarily at anyone’s touch that wasn’t his or Courfeyrac’s, and even in a moment like this he’s glad to see Enjolras look behind at Valjean, trusting him implicitly, some of the years easing but never erasing the instincts ingrained into him by his grandfather’s abuse.  

“He was securing some of the cordage and fell when that wave crashed over the side,” Combeferre says. “We need Joly and to get him below. I don’t think it’s too terrible an injury but we need to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m here,” Joly says, coming behind them with Cosette in tow, as if he has some sort of sense for finding the injured people in his vicinity. “Ah I see the head wound, I need to take a look at that.”

“Take him to my cabin,” Valjean says, looking at Joly. “It will be less rocky down there. Put him in my bed, he can stay there until we arrive in Nassau.”

“Valjean,” Enjolras argues, grimacing as Combeferre helps him up from the deck, securing his arm around Enjolras’ waist.

“Captain’s orders,” Valjean says, leaving no room for protest, and Enjolras falls silent, allowing Combeferre and Cosette to help him to the captain’s cabin. They’re just approaching when Courfeyrac dashes up, fear shining in his eyes, hair drenched from the rain, loose curls all fallen out of their tie.

“Is he all right?” Courfeyrac asks. “What happened?”

“He fell,” Joly explains, putting a calming hand on Courfeyrac’s forearm. “He’s got a bit of a head wound but he’ll be all right, I just need to take a look at it and let him rest. I’ll take care of him, I promise.”

Courfeyrac nods, trusting Joly. He looks concerned, but the storm still goes on and they need as many hands on deck as possible. Combeferre gives him a smile and a reassuring nod, Courfeyrac’s hand lingering on the back of his neck for a moment in affection and giving Enjolras one last glance before dashing off toward Feuilly and Fantine. Joly pushes the door open to Valjean’s cabin, directing Combeferre and Cosette to lay Enjolras down on the bed.

“Cosette could you gather some cloths for me and dampen some of them? Joly asks, composed and focused. “It would be a great help. Combeferre, settle him in if you would.”

“Of course,” Cosette says, smoothing some of the hair out of Enjolras’ eyes, and Combeferre sees a small, pained smile flicker at Enjolras’ lips.

“Do you feel like anything’s broken, Enjolras?” Joly asks, repeating Combeferre’s earlier question, his back turned to them as he removes his coat and rolls up his sleeves. The shirt’s too big, and as the collar falls back Combeferre sees some of the faded scars on the top of the Joly’s back, remnants from his last night in the French Navy.

“I don’t think so,” Enjolras answers. “My side aches from hitting the deck and my head has a dull, throbbing pain but nothing feels broken.”

“Pain’s not surprising, I saw how hard you hit the deck,” Joly says, coming over as Cosette sits the water and cloths on the small table next to the bed, anchored to the wall to keep it from sliding. Joly rolls up his sleeves, accepting one of the damp cloths from Cosette. “I’m just glad you didn’t have very far to fall. I saw that wave come over though, I’m not surprised you slipped.”

Combeferre moves away from the bed even though he doesn’t want to, standing next to Cosette so Joly has room to do his work. He watches as Joly gingerly wipes away the blood, gentle so that he doesn’t put too much pressure on Enjolras’ aching head. Combeferre chances a glance outside, seeing some of the rain subsiding, the ship still rocking, but much less violently, another late summer Caribbean storm fading as quickly as it came.

“It’s a bit of a nasty cut,” Joly says once the blood’s cleared away, examining the wound. “But nothing as bad as it could have been if you’d hit your head against the railing. Combeferre could you hand me that ointment and cut a bandage, please? And Cosette, if you could pour a measure of the rum, there’s some in my bag as well, and glasses in Valjean’s desk.”

Enjolras looks about to protest about the latter, having said many times that rum burns far too much, but Joly raises a hand.

“We’ll water it down a bit my friend,” Joly chides. “But you weren’t about to argue with the doctor, were you? You’re going to be in some pain for a bit and it helps.”

“Apologies,” Enjolras says. “I only wish wine had the quicker pain killing remedies, I suppose.”

“Rum drinking takes some practice, I’m afraid,” Joly says, taking the bandage from Combeferre and gesturing at Enjolras to sit up. “Though don’t take lessons from Grantaire, I did that and woke up with a rather wicked headache. Much as I try, my tolerance can’t measure up to his or Bossuet’s. But I _am_ rather amusing when intoxicated.”

“Certainly,” Enjolras replies. “Thank you, Joly.”

“Of course,” Joly says, his usual cheerful smile returning as he dabs some of the ointment on the cut and wraps the bandage around Enjolras’ head, residual blood seeping into the white material. “I’m always glad to see my skills put to good use in the service of a dear friend. If you’d unbutton your shirt a moment, I want to feel for any swelling or cuts I missed.”

Enjolras does as asked, and Joly feels up and down his sides, stopping when Enjolras blanches as Joly’s hand presses against his ribs.

“Hmm,” Joly murmurs. “No bleeding here, but you may have bruised your ribs on the right. You should avoid laying on that side for a few days, and I want you to rest here for a bit, all right? And if I catch you trying to help with unloading when we arrive I shall be very cross.”

“Ah well I wouldn’t want that,” Enjolras answers, grasping Joly’s hand a moment. “I shall do as you ask.”

“As well you should, I’m quite fearsome when I’m angry,” Joly teases. “Combeferre can keep you company, he’s on my short list of people I’ll leave my patients to. Could have been a doctor himself, I said, if he wasn’t a sailing master in training. And that is one of the most difficult jobs aboard, so I told him I’d forgive him for it. I don’t fancy getting lost at sea.”

“Thank you, Joly,” Combeferre says, feeling his heart slowing a little as Joly winks at him in jest, and he cannot help but smile. It’s a small injury, Combeferre knows, but something about the sight of Enjolras hitting the deck like that reminds him of the days back in Port Royal when the governor would shove him to the floor. They’ve all been bruised and cut from battle, but the image of this particular moment shook him for its odd resemblance to the past.

 “Try not to give us a scare like that again, won’t you?” Cosette says, directing her words at Enjolras, her eyes playful. Somehow sensing Combeferre’s anxiety, she squeezes his shoulder lightly before placing her hand back on her hip.

“I will do my best,” Enjolras answers. “Thank you for your help, Cosette.”

They watch as Joly and Cosette exit to survey the conditions on deck, remaining silent for a moment, something unspoken sitting between their usual ease.

“Here, sit up a bit more,” Combeferre says, handing over the glass of rum. “Drink this.”

Enjolras makes a face reminiscent of his eight-year-old self but drinks it anyhow, though it takes him two swallows to get it down.

“Wine is so much more preferable,” Enjolras says, frowning. “I don’t understand how so many sailors drink this.”

Combeferre doesn’t answer, instead going over and dampening another one of the cloths. The action reminds him of another night long ago when one of the governor’s rings swiped at Enjolras’ cheek leaving a small trail of blood after he backhanded him. He stood toe to toe with the governor nevertheless, expression frozen and stoic even as fire blazed in his eyes.

 _I wish you were as invincible as you think are_ , Combeferre remembers thinking. He remembers another moment later that night after Astra cleaned off Enjolras’ face and they were alone again, remembers hearing Enjolras _truly_ cry, an 11-year-old desperate to understand his grandfather’s actions, and something about it never left Combeferre’s mind. Enjolras wasn’t prone to tears in his sadness, even as a child, but the shock of the blood his grandfather left behind him, however small, pushed them out. He’d wrapped his arms around his friend, wishing with every ounce of himself that he could protect him from the governor. A few months later his father died, and they’d switched places, anchoring each other as the lives they’d known eroded, replaced with something else.

“Frantz?” Enjolras questions, drawing him out the memory. “Something the matter?”

“There’s blood in your hair,” Combeferre answers. “Hold still a moment, I’ll get it out.”

Enjolras does as asked, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that indicates he knows something’s wrong, but he stays quiet, giving Combeferre time. He holds up the wet cloth, pushing Enjolras’ hair out of his face. He remembers the flash of irritation when Enjolras climbed up on the cordage despite his protests, and searches for the words he needs. With his free hand he feels for the pocket watch that was his father’s, passed down to him in Arthur’s will, a sudden pang in his chest for missing him. He suspects the reasons why Enjolras always tries getting in the way of anything hurting him, but he needs them spoken aloud.

“You look at me as your equal, do you not?” Combeferre finally asks, scrubbing carefully at the edges of the Enjolras’ hairline where the blood has already dried, his tone harsher than he intends.

“Of _course_ ,” Enjolras answers, confused, but also sounding very much like he’s been caught. No one else might notice, but Combeferre knows him too well. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I have essentially mastered navigation well enough to likely be the sailing master of a ship on my own,” Combeferre continues, losing control of his words as they come out before he can think. “I am one of the best shots on the crew and I’ve been sailing nearly as long as you have.”

“I _know_ ,” Enjolras answers, defensive now. “What is this about, Frantz?”

“It’s about how often you step in harm’s way for my sake,” Combeferre says. “You did it just now out there on deck. You’ve done it before.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Enjolras protests, short, though the look in his eyes tells Combeferre that’s not the whole story.

“Well I don’t want _you_ getting hurt,” Combeferre replies, stepping back now that he’s satisfied the blood is gone. “And when you do that it makes me feel as if you do not think I can handle myself. I know that can’t be what it is, so please explain it to me. If that is what’s the matter, then please do tell me.”

“That is decidedly _not_ why,” Enjolras protests.

“That you would take a hit for anyone on this ship, I know,” Combeferre says. “But you do it far more often with me. For something as little as a loose line in a storm.”

“I only…” Enjolras replies, devoid of his usual eloquence, the momentary anger vanished. “I just…”

The slight panic in his friend’s voice gives Combeferre a clue, and he lessens the sharpness in his voice.

“Rene are you trying to make up for what your father did to me? And your grandfather? Is that what this is about?” Combeferre asks. “We are both due healing from the wrongs of the past. But we cannot heal together if you are determined to suffer every blow. We are in this side by side.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, giving in. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. They just hurt you so much, and for the worst reasons. I don’t even mean to get in the way most of the time, it’s just an instinct. I know how capable you are, what your skills are, which we’d have been lost without when we were on the run, and certainly now. I just want to prevent anything else happening to you.”

At this Combeferre sits down next to him on the bed, meeting his eyes a moment and seeing the earnest apology within them.

“They hurt you too, you know,” Combeferre says, taking Enjolras’ hands loosely in his own, the anger vanished. “They hurt us both.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre feels a bit of relief flood him at hearing Enjolras admit it. “But the ways they hurt you are things I can never experience, but only witness and I’m afraid I acted without considering the full effect it might have…I’m sorry, Frantz,” he continues. “I never want you to feel like I think you can’t take care of yourself, I certainly know you can.”

“I was only angry because I wanted the truth,” Comebeferre says, smiling, and it eases the stress visible in Enjolras’ shoulders. “I know how you think of me, given how many times you shouted at your father about it.”

Enjolras grins, sheepish, the boy still residing somewhere within the man. That parts of them both miss Michel and Javert- though decidedly not the governor- is true, but that remains complicated, standing on opposite sides of a battle as they are. Part of Combeferre knows they will see them again, and he feels that day drawing closer, and he cannot even begin to truly fathom their reaction.

“The smartest person I know, was my constant refrain,” Enjolras replies, raising his eyebrows. “That’s still true, you know. I’m sorry if I…if my actions reminded you of the way my father treated you. Going back and forth between encouragement and condescension.”

“No,” Combeferre answers. “I don’t feel that way. But you have to promise me you won’t do that anymore, all right? For both our sakes.”

Enjolras nods, but there’s something far away in his eyes that Combeferre catches.

“Rene you are not your father,” Combeferre says, firm. “I wanted to be honest with you and clear this up, but you are not Michel. He means well but is too weak to see it through, and the hurt cascades down because he cannot find his courage anymore and he finds himself complicit in terrible things. You have never been that way.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Enjolras says squeezing his hands, the light returning to his eyes even as weariness floods into them. “Though I am sorry I was short with you at first. I certainly do not mean to make this about my own struggles…”

“You aren’t,” Combeferre says, gently putting Enjolras’ head on his shoulder, feeling his friend relax.

“You _are_ like your father,” Enjolras says quietly, and Combeferre blinks back the moisture in his eyes at the words.  

“I think you and I always wish we could protect each other,” Combeferre says, and though Enjolras’ eyes stay closed, Combeferre knows he’s listening. “And that is not inherently a bad thing. But I ask you not to do that because of trying to make up for things your family did. It makes you take risks you shouldn’t, and I want to protect you just as much, you know, even if you’re near a prodigy with that sword. It’s a dangerous life we’ve chosen.”

Enjolras sits up, looking back at Combeferre.

“Now that I did notice,” Enjolras says, arching one eyebrow. “Do you remember when I first mentioned talking to the pirates down at the dock? You were scandalized.”

“Oh please,” Combeferre says, rolling his eyes. “I was twelve and you were talking about people I’d only heard of as monsters and myths.”

“But I was _right_ ,” Enjolras teases, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

“So you were but you didn’t exactly _drag_ me here, now did you?” Combeferre replies. “Lay down before you do truly make me angry and aggravate your head wound further.”

Enjolras smirks in a way reminiscent of Courfeyrac but does as Combeferre asks, and Combeferre pulls the blanket over him, knowing full well that Valjean will insist Enjolras sleep here until they reach Nassau in a couple of hours.

“You don’t have to stay,” Enjolras says, eyes already growing heavy. “I’m sure they could use your help even though the storm’s died down.”

“I’m staying, Rene,” Combeferre says, pulling up Valjean’s desk chair. “It is the least you can do, really, after you wouldn’t let me hit _my_ head on the deck. Yours is harder granted, but…”

“I’m going to sleep now,” Enjolras interrupts, fighting against a smile.

“ _Now_ who’s the one who is right?” Combeferre asks.

“Mmm,” Enjolras says, eyes fluttering closed, and after a few moments he’s out like a light, a testament to the power of the rum and the head wound, a far cry from Enjolras’ usual struggles with falling asleep.

Combeferre watches Enjolras sleep, remembering the day they’d met and the map they’d poured over, the spot of the dying sunlight landing on Nassau, a place he’d no idea then that they’d call home. Everything has changed since then, but their bond, the thing he values most, remains unaltered.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau, New Providence Island, the Bahamas. 1714.**

Enjolras makes his way down the beach, the water lapping up over his bare feet and pulling back again, his gaze landing on the ships in the bay. Valjean’s acquired a second ship from a retiring pirate he made a deal with and is out inspecting it with Fantine so they might finalize the purchase. There’s been much discussion over what they will name the consort ship, at one point leading to a rather intense debate between Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Cosette one night in the tavern. He turns at the sound of his name, his heel making a deep imprint in the sand.  

“Valjean,” he says, putting a hand above his eyes to he can block out the sun. “I thought you were down at the bay inspecting the new ship.”

“I was,” Valjean answers, falling into step with him. “But this has to do with that, actually. I thought I might find you in the tavern since it’s quiet this time of day and they have that sweet wine you like in.”

“To Bahorel’s endless teasing,” Enjolras says. “But it tastes less strong than anything else, so I prefer it. I did go in, but some of Hornigold and Jennings’ men were shouting and it looked as if a brawl was imminent, so I opted for the beach instead.”

“Wise of you, they really get going when their tempers flare,” Valjean says. “There’s some discussion on them forming a fleet together, but I don’t honestly believe they could even agree on a flag.”

“Prouvaire’s already designing the flag for the consort ship,” Enjolras replies. “I’ve seen some of the sketches.”

“So he has,” Valjean answers. “I’m sure it will be brilliant. Chantal’s going to sew it for us.”

“She’s truly found her place here in Nassau, and I know Frantz is so glad of it, and I am as well. I know Arthur would be so relieved they’re together,” Enjolras says, feeling that familiar ache that manifests when he thinks of Arthur Combeferre. “I cannot tell you how grateful we all are to have this opportunity to run this second ship. Should I perhaps call you commodore now?” Enjolras jokes, and Valjean shakes his head, a half-smile on his face.

“Kindly do not,” Valjean answers. “Fantine would never let me see the end of it.”

Enjolras laughs, looking back out at the water, the sun skipping across the edges of the waves, the breeze cutting into the heat.

“Rene?” Valjean asks, and Enjolras looks back at him, indicating that he’s listening. “We’re recruiting some new crew members since we’ll need more to fill both ships, but it’s come time to choose the officers for the consort. I wanted to ask if you’ve considered putting your name in for captain.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, stopping in his tracks. “Well, I had thought I might put my name in as quartermaster.”

“Why’s that?” Valjean asks, and Enjolras finds himself surprised at the question.

“Well I assumed Jahni would put his name in, and I have no desire to run against a friend, and he’s just as capable as myself,” Enjolras answers. “And he’s your nephew, after all.”

Valjean arches an eyebrow. “And do we not structure ourselves precisely so things aren’t handed down by bloodline?” he asks.

“Oh well yes of course,” Enjolras answers. “But…”

“I’m teasing you lad,” Valjean answers. “Jahni’s not interested in the captaincy.”

“Oh,” Enjolras repeats. “No?”

“He has his eyes on the boatswain position,” Valjean replies. “Taking care of the ship and making sure it sails smoothly, managing the deck crew, is where he feels he fits best. He’s been studying under Tiano ever since I found him, so it’s only natural. He has a talent for it.”

“So he does,” Enjolras agrees, smiling softly as he sees Feuilly frowning at a sail in his mind’s eyes, always impressed with the way he was able to keep the entire ship in his head.

“Well then I’ll ask again,” Valjean says. “Would you like to put your name in?”

“If you think….”

“No,” Valjean says in a rare instance of cutting him off. “Would _you_ like to. That’s the question.”

Enjolras pauses for a moment, drawn back in time again to standing at the wheel with his father, the sky dark above them, the moon serving as their light.

_Frantz always says that I should be the captain and he should be the navigator._

_I think you would make an excellent captain_ , Michel says, French accent warm with affection even as the distance between them grows obvious.

Another memory on the _Navigator_ , of crossing swords with Javert.

 _Because I claimed being the navy captain first_ , he’d protested.

Later, Javert made him fulfill his promise and he’d played the pirate, but that had long ceased being a game.

He looks around him for a moment, hearing the faint sound of some shouts from the marketplace and people calling out from the docks, hearing the hum of the waves as they spill onto shore. Off in the distance he sees a small group of people standing in the surf, men and women of different races and backgrounds, laughing, sharing a bottle of rum between them. Something fills him up to the brim, something hot and certain and a little bit thrilling, the memories of his past colliding into the present and pointing toward his future.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, looking Valjean in the eyes with surety, standing straight. “I would.”

At this Valjean smiles wide, putting an arm out and letting Enjolras step into the embrace. They continue walking down the beach, and Enjolras feels the ghost of his father’s arm around his shoulders, but there is no ownership in Valjean’s touch, no rigid expectations that choked the life out of their relationship. There is just loyalty and affection and a set of shared ideals they try and make good on every day. Emotion rises in his chest, the joy of this small moment stealing his breath. Valjean does not often speak of his past, but to know of the things he’s been through and to still see such a kindness in him, such an instinct to help others, puts inspiration in Enjolras’ heart. He thinks of Javert and the scowl on his face whenever Valjean came up, and it’s only a another sign of the way their paths have diverged; Javert knew a different Valjean when they met, but even since in their encounters, Javert refused to see that Valjean was right, he refused to see the hypocrisy and cruelty of a society he wanted so badly to be a part of, a society that did not treat people with mercy or justice or equality. He remembers Valjean telling him of their confrontation on the beach in Nassau and the close call that night, of seeing the vulnerability in Javert’s eyes, the way his voice split around the edges, and somewhere deep inside, Enjolras finds he still holds hope for the man he’d felt so drawn to as a child, even if the anger and the pain of his betrayals, the recognition of the dangers he represents, remains forefront in his mind. His eyes travel up toward Valjean’s neck, where the number branded into his skin is visible. In earlier years he’d kept it covered up, but had grown at least marginally less self-conscious about it, though Enjolras has noticed the way his fingers sometimes linger on 24601, a reminder of the poor man he’d been, marked for life for the crime of trying to feed his family.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, not quite looking at Valjean, though he feels Valjean’s eyes on him. “For everything.”

“Oh my boy,” Valjean says, understanding everything contained in the few words. “You are most welcome.”

A few days later when they take a vote on the captaincy, it’s unanimous.

“Well if it isn’t Captain Rene Enjolras,” Feuilly says, coming up next to him on the deck of the newly christened _Liberte_ , putting a hand on his shoulder. “And chosen by a unanimous vote too. Nearly unheard of in pirate circles. No squabbling, no fist fights. No drama.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, reaching up and squeezing Feuilly’s hand, unable to squash his smile, which makes his face ache. “I am quite honored. Truly.”

“I know you are,” Feuilly says. He looks over across the deck, watching as Courfeyrac picks up Gavroche, who at fourteen is speedily gaining on Courfeyrac’s height.

“Courfeyrac stop it,” Gavroche protests, but he and Enjolras both notice his grin, and he steals Courfeyrac’s hat, dashing off with it in his hands.

“Courfeyrac seems pleased with being elected quartermaster,” Feuilly observes, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning up against the rail, a happy light in his eyes.

“An excellent choice,” Enjolras agrees. “I’m completely unbiased, of course.”

“Oh yes,” Feuilly adds. “Completely.”

Enjolras looks around the ship, soaking in every part it, the bow and the stern and the sails and the masts and the deck. His eyes land on the helm where Combeferre stands, his fingers lingering on each spoke for a few seconds as if he’s memorizing them, finally the sailing master he’d always imagined as a child. Enjolras turns back to Feuilly, whose eyes followed his own.

“You have a new coat,” Enjolras says, looking at the new russet colored coat, which stops just above Feuilly’s knees, the copper buttons shining in the sunlight. “I didn’t notice in all the chaos.”

“A gift from Uncle Jean,” Feuilly says, looking pleased. “In celebration of the new ship.”

“And your position as Boatswain?” Enjolras asks.

“And that,” Feuilly says, smiling wider now. “It’s a beautiful ship for me to take care of. And from what I can see good men to manage. Bossuet will make an excellent ship’s carpenter.”

“There isn’t anyone better suited,” Enjolras replies. “It’s true of both of you.”

Feuilly looks out around the bay, straightening his posture and folding his hands behind his back, eyes surveying the area around him, and though Enjolras doesn’t comment, he does see Feuilly swipe at his eyes as the sun begins its descent.

“Quite a view for a boy who woke up to see a hurricane destroyed most of what he held dear,” he says, voice raspy. “I couldn’t have known on those nights I was another man’s slave, that I would have this one day. There’s such discoveries in life, aren’t there? New things around the corner every day.”

“Indeed there are,” Enjolras says, reaching out and squeezing his friend’s hand for a brief moment, appreciating the emotional courage behind his words. “Indeed there are.”

“Rene!” Fantine exclaims, coming up from behind and seizing his hand. “There’s something in the captain’s cabin for you.”

She leans over, kissing Feuilly’s cheek before she leads Enjolras away, her grin spreading from ear to ear.

“What is it?” Enjolras asks as she pushes open the door.

“On the chair,” Fantine says, gesturing him forward. “Valjean was too shy to give it to you himself, so I said I’d do the honors.”

Enjolras lets go of her hand, stepping toward the chair, his eyes landing on a deep red coat, brand new and hanging on the back of her chair.

“Red,” Enjolras says, touching the material.

“Like that cravat you had on when we met you that first night,” Fantine says, approaching the desk and laying her hands on the surface, a happy twinkle in her eyes.

“Courfeyrac’s influence,” Enjolras says, absentminded as he feels tears prick his eyes even if couldn’t explain why.

“Look at the edge of the sleeve,” she says.

He does, seeing small black lettering stitched into the red.

 _Captain R. Enjolras_ , he says aloud, feeling his voice start betraying him. He looks up at Fantine, a question on his lips.

“But you didn’t know the vote yet,” he says.

“No,” she says, reaching out and putting a hand over his. “But we had a pretty fair guess. We surveyed all the crew.” She considers him for a moment, a particular kind of look in her eyes. “You know, I only knew your mother for one night, though I wished it was longer, and even in that short period it was clear that you were the light of her life. And I think she’d be proud of you. Happy to know that she did the right thing in letting you go.”

Enjolras nods, blinking back a few tears, and Fantine brushes a quick thumb across his cheek.

“You should put it on,” she says. “We can see how it looks.”

Enjolras picks it up off the chair, sliding it on, and it fits perfectly.

“It suits you,” she says, tapping one of the pale gold buttons with her finger. “Well, I’ll leave you to your cabin, Captain Enjolras. Cosette and I have plans to hug Jahni in congratulations until he blushes.”

Enjolras laughs, watching her go, resting his hands on the back of the chair. After a few moments Combeferre enters, wearing a new coat himself in a shade hunter green.

“A new coat for you too then?” Enjolras asks, putting his arms out so Combeferre can see his.

“Valjean pushed the box into my hands and practically ran away,” Combeferre says, fond. “Bahorel’s is black and gold striped, you should see it. I think he wants to take it to the altar.”

Quiet rests between them for a moment, and Combeferre looks up, meeting his eyes.

“The captain and the navigator,” he says, his voice reflecting the feelings sitting in the center of Enjolras’ chest, joy tinged with something bittersweet. “Just like we always wanted when we were boys.”

At this Enjolras cannot contain it anymore; he moves to the other side of the desk and embraces Combeferre, fingers holding on tight to his friend’s new coat. Combeferre pulls him close, and everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve fought for, lives and breathes in the moment. His mind runs backward to the night they ran away from Port Royal, and Javert’s scoffing at Enjolras’ lie that he no longer cared for him.

 _I care about Frantz more_ , Enjolras hears himself say.

They break apart, and a few seconds later Courfeyrac bursts in, wearing a new navy blue coat.

“And say hello to your new quartermaster, my dearest friends,” he says, coming up between them and putting arms around both their shoulders. “Now Fantine and I can have quartermaster competitions.”

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac pushes at his leg with his foot.

“Anyhow, we’re needed on deck, Rene,” Courfeyrac says. “They want you to do the roll call for the ship so that we can get a head count of all the men and if there needs to be any sent to or borrowed from the _Misercorde_.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, surveying the room as they leave. “You know, I think I’m going to have to share this cabin with the two of you. It’s far too large, and I realize I haven’t slept alone in a room for years. Seems strange.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac smile in agreement, and after a few minutes Enjolras has called the role of most of the men and women set to sail with them, Valjean and Fantine watching from the corner, looking proud, Cosette in-between them practically dancing with glee. He calls out Marius’ name, who is to be shared between ships to handle the finance books, as well as Eponine and Gavroche, who have proved quick studies in repairing the sails and the cordage, small and nimble enough to move around the ship. His eyes land on the final eight names, and a smile creeps over his lips again.

“Grantaire,” he calls out. “Ship’s cook.”

“Here,” Grantaire answers, that teasing expression on his face that Enjolras can never quite interpret, but despite Grantaire’s doubt, his loyalty to their friends and their ship is resolute.

“Joly, ship’s doctor.”

“At your service, captain,” Joly says, looking pleased.

“Bossuet, ship’s carpenter.”

“Here and most happy about it,” Bossuet says, running a hand over the top of his head.

“Bahorel and Prouvaire, joint master gunners.”

“And master of reconnaissance,” Prouvaire adds.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “An important addition.”

“Those canons are ready to fire when you are, Enjolras,” Bahorel adds, a flicker of adventure in his eyes.

“Feuilly, Boatswain.”

Feuilly tips his hat in response, gaze landing first on Enjolras, then looking around the ship, a light in his eyes.

“Combeferre, sailing master.”

“Ready at the helm,” Combeferre answers.

“And finally, Courfeyrac, quartermaster.”

“And proud of it,” Courfeyrac says, looping his arm through Enjolras’. “And if I may say ladies and gents…let’s give them hell, shall we?”

A loud roar of approval comes up from the assembled crew, and Enjolras realizes he has never felt more at home than he does in this moment. It dies down, and Enjolras speaks again.

“Prouvaire,” Enjolras says, feeling the hush thick in the air now, everyone holding their breath in anticipation. “Hoist the colors.”

He looks up, watching the new black flag rise up as the sunset gives a final dying breath, a blast of orange-red light glowing behind the skull and crossbones as it reaches the top, edging it with gold.

Here, he thinks, feeling the air around him tangible with one shared feeling, is their revolution made manifest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes! There's actually a lot so hopefully I recall them all. First, there will be one more chapter in Book II, and then we will move onto Book III, which will be longer. The level at which I am excited for Book III is HUGE. Also much thanks to ariadneslostthread, who gave me some great ideas for this chapter! Also we will see cameos from the oft mentioned Musichetta and also from Bahorel's family at the end of Book II. 
> 
> Some sort of footnotes for the chapter:
> 
> The phrase in Michel's pocket watch, "fair winds and following seas" is an old nautical blessing which basically means have a good journey. 
> 
> A consort ship is a ship that sails under the flagship. So for this fic's purposes, the Amis run their own ship with it's own officers, but sail in tandem with Valjean, though sometimes they'll also go out on their own. Some historical pirates actually formed a whole group called the Flying Gang, once!
> 
> The mention of Hornigold and Jennings: Benjamin Hornigold and Henry Jennings essentially ran Nassau and were bitter rivals despite the fact that they formed said Flying Gang later on. There will be cameos from some famous pirates in Book III! Most of the big names we think of started around 1715.
> 
> Some of the ship positions I thought might need explaining. The Boatswain's job was to take care of the rigging: so the sails and the cordage and the masts and the like, and managed the deck crew who did that work. That is Feuilly's job. Sort of like he managed the snipers in canon, was my thought. The quartermaster was second in command to the captain, and took his place in battle if he fell. The quartermaster also negotiated disputes between men and acted as a liason between the captain and the sailors and let their interests be known. Courfeyrac does this on the Liberte and Fantine on the Misericorde. A ship's carpenter took care of the wood of the ship, repaired the hull patched things up. That's Bossuet's job. The master gunners were in charge of the canons and other weaponry on board, and that's Bahorel and Prouvaire's job, and Prouvaire is also in charge of reconnaissance missions. The others I think are fairly well explained within. The majority of the officers were decided by vote. 
> 
> ....this has been a long notes section, but I hope it all makes sense!


	16. Book II (Coming Together): Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crews of the Liberte and the Misericorde take a stand against the practice of press-ganging by the British Royal Navy, rescuing four boys from a terrible predicament. When the navy captain reports back to Michel and Javert, he refers to the captain who defeated him as the Avenging Angel, and Javert's suspicions only grow, while Michel denies them. Grantaire asks Enjolras if he can assist Prouvaire and Eponine with a reconnaissance mission, and while not all goes to plan, Grantaire grows more comfortable with his place on the crew and in his friendship with Enjolras. As word of the Avenging Angel spreads, more and more ships surrender without a fight, and the Amis sometimes sail out on their own, always finding a home and a family to return to in Nassau. Valjean worries over the publicity leading Javert to their doorstep. Javert finds Astra collecting newspaper clippings on the Avenging Angel and Fauchelevent the Benevolent, and this piece of news leads Michel to give credence to Javert's ideas about his son. 
> 
> With reappearances by Bahorel's family, Chantal, Tiena, and introducing Musichetta! Also with cameos featuring Edward Teach (Blackbeard), Anne Bonny, and Jack Rackham.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just a note that this is a long chapter! And the last chapter in Book II. So next we will be moving on to Book III. The Book itself will be longer, though the chapters will be somewhat shorter as things are going to get very plot-driven and it makes it easier to break them up! I AM EXCITED about Book III. 
> 
> As a note on the famous pirate cameos, a lot of them started to pop up around 1715, and three are featured here. The pirate Sam Bellamy will have a big cameo in Book III. He is, interestingly, where I got the idea for some of the way Valjean's brand of piracy works. 
> 
> A small note on sailing terms, windward means they're sailing into the wind. I also mention hiding gun ports, which was a practice pirates used to make merchant ships they followed think they were also merchants. Pirates did a lot of disguising their ships to go unnoticed until they wished it.

**The Caribbean Sea near the coast of the Cayman Islands. 1714.**

“British colors, 50 guns,” Courfeyrac says in Enjolras’ ear, squinting one eye as he spies through the glass. “I think that’s the ship of his _majesty’s_ navy we’ve been looking for. Captain Benjamin’s _HMS Endeavour_.”

“We’ve been trailing them for an hour and they haven’t tried to run,” Enjolras sys. “It seems they don’t suspect us.”

“Or are simply waiting for the right moment to engage us,” Courfeyrac adds.

“I need to talk to Bahorel about doing more work to hide the gun ports when we arrive back home,” Enjolras says.

“Work I’m sure he’d enjoy,” Courfeyrac adds. “Not only guns, but _surprise_ guns.”

“I know this is a risk,” Enjolras says, eyes locked on the ship a short distance away, seeing the _Misericorde_ sailing beside them out of the corner of his eye. “Going up against any navy of our own accord is a risk, and with Javert’s new position it’s even more prominent.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says, resting a hand briefly over his, and Enjolras draws confidence from the unwavering support in his friend’s voice. “But it’s as you said when you presented this to the crew; this captain is one of the worst about pressganging sailors in all the British Royal Navy. Some of the men on both our crew and Valjean’s have suffered that. If they could prevent that for others…”

“They would,” Enjolras finishes for him. “We’ve assembled a truly impressive crew here. In more ways than one.”

“So we have,” Courfeyrac answers. “The crew is with us on this, Rene. And more than just the nine of us you’re thinking of. If they weren’t they would have been honest when I asked. And you know Valjean and Fantine’s men are as well. And we did take a vote.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “I just wanted to be certain in the aftermath.”

“I also spoke to Marius this morning,” Courfeyrac continues. “And our finances are solid, enough so that the men are paid and we can give some away. Enough to set our sights on missions like these for a few weeks.”

“That Spanish merchant two weeks ago proved more fruitful than anticipated,” Enjolras answers, smiling at Courfeyrac. “You’d think they’d know better than to carry that amount of gold in one spot.”

They all watch the ship for a few minutes, and as he takes the glass from Courfeyrac, Enjolras sees the gun ports on the naval ship opening, and once he sees the signal from the _Misericorde_ , he springs into action.

“Raise the black!” he calls out turning away from the rail, watching as they lower the British colors and raise the Jolly Roger.

Feuilly comes up beside him with Prouvaire in tow, looking out at the ship.

“The one we were looking for,” Feuilly murmurs. “We’ll be caught up to them soon.”

“Do you think they’ll surrender?” Prouvaire asks. “With both of us approaching? They’re opening their gun ports, but they don’t seem to see we have more combined power.”

“I don’t think they will,” Feuilly replies. “First, the British Navy can’t be seen surrendering to pirates at present, and two, I suspect that if they do, they’ll garnish the wages of all the sailors, as the Spanish do.”

They break apart again, each tending to their duties, and Enjolras makes his way to the helm, where Combeferre’s already taken over.

 “It’s a windward chase,” Combeferre says, moving the wheel just slightly to the starboard side. “Hopefully we can come in on either side of them and close them in. Though they’re ready for a fight, it would appear. They aren’t trying to run.”

“They’re not,” Enjolras answers. “I wish we could avoid the fight, but if we cannot, we are prepared.”

Combeferre nods, tightening his grip on the wheel.

“If our information was right about Captain Benjamin,” Combeferre says. “With a ship of that size there’s probably several boys aboard serving as cabin boys and powder monkeys. We’ll need to sweep everywhere. Definitely look in every corner of the hold.”

“Yes,” Enjolras agrees. “Valjean agreed to let us take the lead on boarding. But I’ll alert the crew.”

Combeferre squints for a moment, looking at the naval ship, then scowls.

“Whoever’s at their helm isn’t doing a very good job,” he comments. “They’re practically swerving. All the money in the world, you’d think they’d train the men on a ship like this more extensively. If it’s not the sailing master it’s some poor sap they don’t pay enough because the officer doesn’t want to get his hands dirty in a battle with pirates and put himself in danger.”

“And they wonder why so many men jump ship and join us,” Enjolras replies.

“Indeed,” Combeferre says, anger cutting into his tone, a frown pulling at lips.

Enjolras leaves Combeferre’s side for a moment, hand lingering on his shoulder as he departs.

“Bahorel, Prouvaire, get the gun crews ready,” Enjolras calls out. “Be prepared to fire on my command. Everyone, prepare to board, we’ll be taking the lead!”

“Do you think they’ll fire first?” Bahorel asks, dashing up beside him.

“I’m not certain,” Enjolras answers. “But they aren’t surrendering.”

“Foolish of them,” Bahorel says, winking at Enjolras as he makes his way toward the gun deck.

“The wind’s with us!” Combeferre shouts. “I say twenty minutes and we’ll be on them.”

Enjolras watches as their ships grow closer to the _Endeavour_ , and as it comes toward them he sees men scurrying about on deck, no doubt preparing for battle. He hears Valjean call out orders on the _Misericorde_ , feeling a certainty burgeon in his chest as the minutes pass, his hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass.

Soon, he hears the blast of the _Endeavour’s_ canons, receiving his answer.

“Fire all!” he shouts in response, and there’s a moment’s pause before the ship rumbles with the sound of canons, smoke filling the air. Seconds later the _Misericorde_ fires as well, and he steps to the rail, attempting to see through the haze of the initial fire.

“Prepare to board!” he shouts. “Sweep every inch of that ship. Focus on the officers. Try to avoid harming the regular seamen where you can.”

They’re close enough now that he sees the naval crew seizing their grappling hooks to pull the _Liberte_ closer, but his crew is faster, and soon he hears the sound of the hooks cutting into the wood, hears the gangplank slamming down and he and runs across it, hearing Bossuet’s voice behind him.

“All right, Enjolras? You’re looking particularly fearsome today, if I may say so,” he says, laughter in his voice even now.

“You may,” Enjolras says, a chuckle escaping his lips.

“Cold as ice, bold as fire, I always say,” Bossuet replies as they jump down onto deck and into the melee.

“So you do,” Enjolras answers, drawing his sword. “Sorry about all the repairs the ship might need after this. Creating a bit of work for you.”

“Ah I’m happy to do it for this,” Bossuet says, a rare darkness passing over his expression. “Besides, we came in on either side of them, so I suspect they’ll be the ones having more repairs.”

 The sound of another cutlass clanging against his own cuts off Enjolras’ reply, and he turns, focusing on the man in front of him.

“You pirates court death,” the man says, and Enjolras can tell by the weakness of the officer’s swing that he’s the better swordsman. He reads the expensive jacket and the medals, suspecting this must be the first mate. “Coming after a ship of his majesty’s navy.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Enjolras answers. “Given there’s two of us and one of you.”

They continue on for a few minutes, and Enjolras glances down at the other man’s feet, which start faltering, and he speeds up his own, moving quicker and quicker until his swing knocks the man’s sword out of his hands. Enjolras takes advantage of his surprise, kicking his feet out from under the first mate so that he falls to the deck. He points his sword at the man’s chest, but doesn’t strike.

“You really should have surrendered,” he says before running across the deck in the direction of the hold, unlatching the door and rushing in.

Enjolras’ eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, but the sound of whispers draw his attention to the corner, where he sees four boys huddled together, one black and three white, and the sight of them draws out that familiar ache he feels when there’s so much he wants to _do_ , so much he wants to _change_ , and yet there is only so much he can do in a single day. He surveys them for a moment, seeing their sweaty, matted hair. Soot and gunpowder streaked across their cheeks. One has a bruise on his forearm and another a cut on his face, all four with ripped trousers and shoes peeling at the edges. They can’t be more than twelve, he thinks. He steps forward and they turn at the creak in the wood, shrinking back even further. He sheaths his cutlass, realizing himself.

“I’m here to help you,” he says, injecting the calm he’s heard Joly use with injured sailors into his voice, using the reassuring tone Cosette does when they rescue people from slave ships. He puts his hands out, showing them that he no longer holds a weapon.

“You’re pirates?” one asks, stepping forward, and Enjolras cannot shake the idea that he looks like Combeferre.

“Yes,” he answers. “But we aren’t here to hurt you. There’s two ships out there, and we plan to take you with us.”

“To serve on your crew?” another boy asks, looking afraid.

“No,” Enjolras says, feeling something inside him explode at the fear in the boy’s voice, dripping down hot and then growing cold at the edges so it feels as if there’s ice in his chest. “To find you a way back to your homes.”

“We’ve heard terrible things about pirates,” the third boy replies. “That they cut off people’s limbs, or murder them or…”

“I can assure we will not do that to you,” Enjolras answers, reaching out a hand. He’s not as comfortable as some of the others are at handling children, but something about this situation feels more natural, and the words come out with ease. He sees something spark in the eyes of the fourth boy, who nods at the others, speaking up.

“Who are you?” he asks, tilting his head.

“I am Captain Enjolras of the _Liberte_ , and I sail under Captain Fauchelevent of the _Misericorde_ ,” he replies. “I need you to come with me now. Did they try and hide you here when they saw us approaching?”

“Yes,” the fourth boy answers. “They didn’t want you to know we were aboard.”

Enjolras nods, reaching out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation one of the boys takes it, and the other three join hands, all five of them forming a chain. It breaks as they climb out of the hold and back into the still ongoing battle, though at first glance it appears they definitely have the advantage. The boys huddle behind Enjolras, following him closely, and out of the cloud of smoke Fantine emerges, swooping in from behind. She raises her hands when they jump at the sight of her knife, giving them a kind smile.

“This knife isn’t meant for any of you boys,” she says, before looking back over at Enjolras. “Seems our information was correct.”

“So it was,” Enjolras answers. “We need to get them back to the _Liberte_ quickly.”

Fantine’s about to respond when suddenly her eyes widen, and Enjolras hears the cock of a pistol. He slowly turns his head away from Fantine and directs his gaze in front of him, seeing a man who is no doubt Captain Benjamin standing before him, pistol inches away and pointed directly at him.

“Halt!” the captain cries as soon as Enjolras’ gaze locks with his own. “Cease fire!”

“Interesting choice,” Enjolras says as a few more noises resound around them before the gun shots and the clanging swords and the canon fire stops, leaving them in an eerie, unexpected quiet. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Combeferre and Prouvaire standing with their hands clasped together, remaining utterly silent. Valjean stands nearby, one hand on his pistol, and he steps closer until he’s just a foot away from Captain Benjamin. Feuilly covers the boys from the back, sweeping his sword out in a semi-circle at the officers who approach. After a moment the canons from the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ cease as well, and though Enjolras cannot turn to look in the direction of his ship, he pictures Bahorel swiping his hand through the air as he calls out the cease-fire, that grin that’s always in his eyes even if it’s not on his lips still present as he tries sorting out what’s going on. If this were a different scenario, Enjolras might smile at the thought.

“I’ve had a few men jump ship recently to join pirate crews,” Captain Benjamin responds. “And I’d like the remaining ones to know just what sort of ends pirates meet.”

“So you frighten them into submission?” Enjolras asks, slowing easing his right hand up a fraction so the captain doesn’t notice.

“So they can be less afraid of _you_ ,” the captain says, tightening his grip on the pistol. “I’m sure you are aware of the fear you spread, the ghost stories and the tall tales superstitious sailors make up in their minds about pirate ships. But when they see your blood spill onto this deck, they’ll see you are nothing more than a man like any of us. A man turned into a monster, but who is mortal even still. I will show them that a monster can be _slain_.”

“Interesting that you think we’re the monsters,” Enjolras says. 

“You have no moral high ground here!” the captain shouts. “You and your pirate wretches, causing terror on the seas.”

“I frighten people with power,” Enjolras says, hearing just how frigid his voice sounds. “Not those without it. What about the terror you cause? You’ve made it your duty to make your men subservient to you. Even if you were a kinder man to your sailors as some in your ranks are, though I suspect given your reputation for impressment you are not, the very hierarchy you serve mistreats them.”

Captain Benjamin rolls his eyes. “You are a fool if you think I’d let you get away with these boys.”

“And you are a fool if you do not surrender now,” Enjolras answers, hearing the anger spill into his voice, inching his hand up further and keeping it steady. “You may be a ship of the line, but there are two of us, and you are outnumbered by both men and guns.”

The captain narrows his eyes, but Enjolras can tell by the way they flit back and forth that he knows he’s at a disadvantage.

“That may be,” he answers, voice low with fury. “But I will not let you take away what belongs to this crew. You’ll be dead on the deck first.”

“These boys are not yours,” Enjolras says, hearing a slight tremor in his voice not out of fear, but out of sheer emotion. “They are children you stole from their homes to serve your purposes.”

The captain moves to fire and Enjolras reaches up, seizing the gun and pointing it down, hearing the Captain Benjamin shout as the finger holding the trigger breaks. He grabs the captain’s wrist with his other hand, steadying it before he pulls the gun away, handing it to Feuilly, who stands just nearby. Undeterred by his broken finger, Captain Benjamin shoves at him with his uninjured hand and Enjolras hears Bahorel’s voice in his head.

_Use your elbows. They’re a sharp blow, and they hurt more than you realize._

Enjolras elbows the captain’s nose, and blood pours out of his nostrils. He then sends a swift kick to the captain’s ribs and he falls, hitting the deck. Enjolras pulls his sword out of his sheath, pointing it at the captain’s chest, hearing Fantine and Bossuet usher the boys off the ship from behind him so they’re out of any line of fire.

“I’ll be taking these boys from you now,” Enjolras says, keeping his tone calm even as his heart races from adrenaline and exertion. “I don’t suppose you’d care to keep going with the battle.”

He’s met with nothing but a glare and silence from the captain, the naval sailors all taking a step back as he looks around. He steps forward, feeling a hand seize the bottom of his coat, but before he can even look behind him he hears Captain Benjamin grunt, seeing Courfeyrac push him back down to the deck and placing his foot on the captain’s chest, his dirk glinting in the sunlight.

“Do not even attempt it,” Courfeyrac says, hot anger edging his tone like fire. “Value your life and our mercy.”

“Your thieving hands drip with the blood of upstanding men,” the captain spits. “And yet you leave me here alive to what? Make a mockery of me? To sink my ship?”

“No,” Enjolras says, slow with his words. “We have no intention of sinking your ship. All our hands have death on them, but we do not take pleasure in it as you do, and our hands are not as bloodied as the newspapers would have you believe. We do not hang men in front of mobs and then display them in the harbor like trophies. Do you know how many men were employed in His Majesty’s Navy during the war with Spain, Captain Benjamin?”

“What?” the captain asks, flabbergasted and wincing at his wounds.

“50, 000,” Enjolras answers. “Now there are less than quarter of that. England, France, Spain, they use men for their purposes and then toss them out. Then they steal for their bread and receive hard labor for it. They steal more and receive death.”

“And you think this gives you the right to behave as you do?” Captain Benjamin asks, still glaring, but something like fear blossoms in his eyes as Enjolras leans down closer, Courfeyrac’s foot still planted on the captain’s chest.

“Until society behaves with true justice, with true equality and mercy for those it instead tries to crush under its feet,” he says, his voice a whisper threaded through with determination, and he sees the captain flinch. “Yes.”

Captain Benjamin glares at him and Enjolras glares back until finally the captain raises his hand, gesturing at his men, who stand at the ready.

“Stand down men,” he says, defeat in his tone, still gazing at Enjolras as if he cannot quite make sense of him. “I’ve no desire to return this ship to Kingston in worse shape than it already is.”

Enjolras feels something pinch in his chest. Something had changed since they’d gotten their information on Captain Benjamin; when Prouvaire arrived back with the news on him they’d heard he made sail from Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. Courfeyrac removes his foot and one of the men helps the captain up.

“We will leave first,” Enjolras says, leaving no room for protest, seeing that glimmer of dread in the captain’s eyes again, mixed with something like awe. “Once we’re out of your sight, you may go. Do not follow us.”

At first Captain Benjamin doesn’t respond and Enjolras turns away, Feuilly, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Prouvaire walk in step with him, but then the captain’s voice does cut through the air.

“You have no idea the might of the forces that will come after you once I reach Kingston with word of this,” Captain Benjamin says, and Enjolras pushes down his darkest impulse, resists saying _destroy that ship_ , resists because there are innocent men on board who are bound to the whims of their captain, and spins back around on his heel, a ray of sunlight striking him. The captain steps back at the sight of his expression.

“I knew that when I started,” Enjolras replies, voice rough with a cold that burns at the center and spreads outward.

Captain Benjamin doesn’t respond again and they make their way back to the ship. Enjolras looks over, seeing Joly squatting down in the center of the knot of boys, speaking to them in soft tones and giving a smile. Grantaire stands beside him with Joly’s medical bag in his hands, sword tucked haphazardly into his sash as if he’d only just had time to stow it, a small cut bleeding on his arm.

“Feuilly!” Enjolras calls out, and his friend appears at his elbow in a matter of seconds. “Are we all right to make it back to Nassau? How much damage is there?”

“Their guns were powerful, so even though they’re much worse off we did sustain some damage,” Feuilly answers. “We should be all right to make it back to Nassau just fine, but we’ll need some time to tend to the ship after that. Small things, really, but I don’t want them growing larger if we ignore them. My men are tending to small rips in some of the sails as we go, and Bossuet is making notes to the wood damage he can see while we sail.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, feeling the exhaustion of his exertion flood him, something heavy sitting in his stomach even as hope fills him at the fact that they’ve rescued these boys. “We’ll set sail as soon as we see the signal from the _Misericorde_.”

Feuilly nods, clasping Enjolras’ shoulder a moment before he goes, calling out orders.

He’s replaced almost immediately by Prouvaire and Combeferre, the latter looking exceedingly apologetic.

“I had no idea he sailed from Kingston,” Prouvaire says without preamble. “When I received the reconnaissance on him they said Tortola plain as day.”

“It’s all right Prouvaire,” Enjolras says smiling in reassurance. “Your information was likely right at the time, and we’d never have known anything about him if it weren’t for you. Even if you had come back with the news that he sailed from Kingston, I still would have presented it to the men, its’s…”

“Too important,” Prouvaire says, echoing his smile, grasping Enjolras’ fingers for a moment, expressing an understanding of something more than just this, an understanding of everything that happened with Captain Benjamin. “I need to go help Bahorel on the gun deck, but let me know if you need anything else?”

“I will,” Enjolras says. “Thank you.”

Prouvaire departs, leaving Enjolras alone with Combeferre. They walk without words toward the helm, and Combeferre takes the wheel from one of the men, who hands it over gladly as they see the signal from the _Misericorde_ and start setting sail.

“Kingston,” Combeferre says after a few moments of silence, eyes scanning the horizon.

“Unfortunately,” Enjolras replies. “But even if he made port somewhere else there would have been a report sent to my father and Javert given their duties. But now…”

“They will receive a more direct account,” Combeferre answers, looking over at Enjolras now. “They will see his injuries, and he may describe you. Javert already has clues as it is. Other men wouldn’t latch onto them, but he does.”

“Like a wolf hunting its prey,” Enjolras says. “And he has his own ship now, if our sources are correct.

They grow quiet and Combeferre surveys Enjolras a moment. “Are you all right?”

It’s clear there’s no injury, so Enjolras knows what Combeferre means, knows that he’s checking to make sure the toll of things has not grown too heavy.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, smiling again as he looks over at the boys, who Joly still tends to. Gavroche, only three years or so older than them, has joined them, a protective look on his face. “I’m all right.”

He watches as two of the boys walk away from the group hand in hand, heading toward the two of them at the wheel. It’s the boy with the bruise on his arm, walking alongside the darker-skinned boy, and Enjolras doesn’t miss Combeferre’s eyes lingering for a moment as if he recognizes them.

“Thank you Captain Enjolras,” the boy with the bruise says, shy. “For saving us. We’d been on that ship for almost three years, and the other two one year.”

“You are most welcome,” Enjolras says, hearing the smallest tremble in his voice. “You may call me Rene, if you like. Both of you. And this is Frantz.”

“Hello,” Combeferre says, blinking a few times in rapid succession. “Once our doctor Joly tends to you and you’ve eaten, if you can’t sleep, would you like me to teach you how to steer?”

They both nod in eagerness, giving Enjolras and Combeferre tired, muted smiles that shine with the smallest ounce of hope.

“Mr. Gavroche said he was going to teach our other friends to work on some of the rigging, if they liked. We didn’t get to learn much of that on the naval ship, you see, we were mostly helping with the guns or fetching things,” the second boy says. “But we said we’d like to learn more about how to make something this big go where you’d like.”

“That I can do,” Combeferre says. “But you’d best let Joly tend to you first, you’re both a bit injured.”

They nod again, and both of them look back as they dash away.

“Mr. Gavroche,” Combeferre says, arching one eyebrow.

“Apparently so.”

They fall into a contented quiet, and Enjolras watches all the movement around him as the wind truly gets them going, the _Misericorde_ sailing just alongside as the men lower the black flag on both ships.

No matter what the consequences, Enjolras tells himself. This has been a victory.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1714**

Javert is filling out paperwork when he hears a knock at the door.

“Yes?” he calls out, keeping his eyes on his papers as the person enters, not stepping all the way inside.

“Sir.” Javert hears the voice of his new clerk, a lad no more twenty-one. He looks up, pushing his new reading spectacles down his nose.

“Something wrong, MacMillan?” he asks, lowering his quill.

“No, Captain Javert, but it is urgent,” MacMillan answers. “I was just down by Commodore Enjolras’ office, and I ran into Admiral Adams, who was leaving there. Captain Benjamin’s crew has returned, sir, and the Endeavour is in bad shape. The captain himself sustained a few injuries and two men were lost in the scuffle from canon fire.”

“The scuffle?” Javert asks, removing his spectacles now. “What sort of scuffle?”

“Pirates sir,” MacMillan explains. “I don’t know all of the details, but there were two of them, apparently. Ships that is. The admiral looked rather ruffled but said his stage-coach was leaving urgently for Spanish town and that he could not stay, but that he trusted you and Commodore Enjolras to get a full and detailed report to give to him upon on his return. And to Baron Travers as well, since he is away in Port Royal on East India business.”

“Is Commodore Enjolras waiting for me in his office?” Javert asks, rising from his chair, replacing his hat and arranging his cravat back into place, the latter a gift from Michel for his just passed 40th birthday.

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you, MacMillan,” Javert says. “I’ve finished signing all of those papers. Take them to Admiral Adams’ clerk if you would, so they’ll be waiting for him when he arrives back in a few days.”

“Yes sir,” MacMillan repeats. “Good luck sir.”

Javert nods, bidding MacMillan farewell as he exits his office and heads toward the docks. He takes the shortcut across the beach, noticing as sailors from privateer and smaller merchant ships step back when he approaches, fear flickering in their faces as he passes by and going even more rapidly about their business as though they worry they look suspicious. He waves in curt greeting to a few of Michel’s crewmen as he passes the _Navigator_ , arriving soon after in front of Michel’s office door. He knocks and the door opens a few seconds later, Michel appearing in the frame.

“I just heard word from MacMillan about Benjamin’s crew,” Javert says in greeting.

“Yes,” Michel says, terse, looking concerned, though something tells Javert it’s about more than just the news they’ve heard.

“Michel what is it?” Javert asks.

“What?” Michel asks, sounding absentminded, and Javert notices again the new streaks of gray in his still immaculate blond hair.

“It just seemed like something was bothering you,” Javert says.

“My apologies,” Michel says. “I did not mean to direct it at you. I had a bit of a tiff with Captain Benjamin before he set sail, you see.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Javert says, feeling an unexpected pang. “May I ask what about?”

“I didn’t really even think anything of it at the time,” Michel says.“I got busy afterward and simply forgot to mention it. I caught him striking one of the cabin boys on his ship, you see. Rather forcefully. I bid him to cease, is all.”

“Ah,” Javert says, seeing ghosts in Michel’s eyes, and he doesn’t comment further.

“And if the initial report I heard is true, that pirates took four boys he’d impressed into his crew,” Michel says. “Well. I just don’t want him to think I approve, or had anything to do with it. I do not like impressment, but I would not sanction pirates to end it.”

“I do not think anyone would say that of you,” Javert says, clasping Michel’s forearm briefly in a rare show of physical affection. “You are one of the most respected officers in the region, an upstanding man. No one would dare accuse you of associating with pirates.”

_Your son might be a pirate_ , Javert does not say aloud.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” Michel says, but his smile does not quite meet his eyes. “I am growing more paranoid as I grow older, I’m afraid.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes as they walk toward Captain Benjamin’s house, where Michel said the doctor was seeing to some final things before they arrived. They pass the _HMS Endeavour_ on the way, and Javert stops short at the sight.

“What in the _devil_?”

“Christ,” Michel mutters, eyes gazing at the damaged wood and multiple torn sails, one of the masts in danger of cracking in half.

“How did they even get back here?” Javert asks.

“Admiral Adams said they were near the coast of the Cayman Islands and stopped off there,” Michel answers. “So they must have made some repairs, though I don’t know more than that.”

“I haven’t seen a ship of the line damaged like this before,” Javert breathes. “Smaller ones, certainly, there are pirates out there with larger ships, but usually they have a harder time keeping up with a ship like this.”

“Well there were two of them,” Michel says. “If they came in on either side, even if they only had a handful more guns and men, all of those things would give them a large advantage.”

“There was rumor of that pirate Hornigold training younger pirates, that he’s possibly formed fleets,” Javert says, and he has an odd sense of foreboding. “Was it one of his?”

Michel doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes flitting back up to the ship and then back over to Javert before looking back out at the horizon. In his silence, Javert finds his answer, and it’s more than just a simple _no_.

“You cannot be serious,” Javert seethes.

“Nicholas,” Michel tries.

“Last I checked Valjean or Fauchelevent as so prefers now, had but one ship,” Javert cuts in, a rare interruption of his mentor.

“Well apparently he has two now,” Michel says, starting to walk away from the ship and putting a hand on Javert’s wrist, indicating he should follow.

Javert starts walking, scarcely registering Michel’s touch.

_The blond brat who injured the East India captain_

_The broken coffee cup spilling down the bar with no sugar._

_Valjean’s look back. The hairs on his coat._

_The fear in his eyes._

“Did Admiral Adams say anything about the consort ship?” Javert asks.

“No,” Michel says, and if he suspects Javert’s line of thinking, he doesn’t express it yet. “That we will have to learn about from Captain Benjamin.”

They make their way toward the captain’s house, and soon they’re inside, waiting for entrance into the captain’s bedroom, where he’s resting from his injuries. They’re allowed in after a few minutes, the doctor indicating that they should refrain from causing too much anxiety. Javert surveys the man a moment; bandages wrapped around his ribs and chest peek out from beneath his nightclothes, there is a massive bruise on his nose, which looks like it was surely broken, and his finger splinted.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Benjamin says in greeting, his gaze chilly when he looks at Michel, but he gives no other indication of their previous disagreement otherwise. “My apologies for meeting you in such undress. I wanted to come downstairs, but the doctor bade me stay here, given my sore chest and bruised ribs, and he would take no argument.”

“Quite all right,” Javert replies, pulling out his quill and notebook, setting the inkwell down. “We’re just glad to see you alive after the experience we’re told you had.”

Captain Benjamin flushes slightly in embarrassment, but clears his throat.

“It was unexpected,” he answers. “Pirates do not usually engage naval ships willingly, especially not ones with 50 guns.”

“It is not a mark against you, captain,” Michel says, outwardly cordial, but Javert hears a marked dislike in his tone that Michel usually covers up. “These men are villains, after all, who use dishonest strategies. We know the basics; it was Fauchelevent’s ships who attacked you, yes? And they took four boys who had been pressganged into your crew?”

The dislike grows stronger Michel’s sentence, turning bitter at the end of his sentence.

“Yes,” Captain Benjamin responds, not missing the sound. “That is correct. They had about 65 guns between them as far as I could tell. Seventy or so sailors on each ship, give or take. They approached us and raised their colors after they’d been following us for an hour flying British colors, but I wouldn’t run from them. They weren’t the disorderly brutes I’d imagined; they were there with a purpose.”

“And how did these injuries occur?” Javert asks, his quill scratching across the parchment before he looks up again, feeling his pulse quicken. “Did Fauchelevent cause them?”

“No,” Captain Benjamin replies, his uninjured hand grasping at the blanket, and Javert sees a haunted look in his eyes, remembering something Javert and Michel cannot see. “It was the man who captains his consort ship, I believe. Young. I had my pistol to him, intending to make an example, but the wretch was fast; he took it from me and broke my finger, elbowed my face and caused this injury to my nose and kicked me to the deck. And he…” the captain trails off a moment, and then looks at Javert, eyes widening. “When he stood over me, his quartermaster pinning my chest down with his foot…I’ve never seen such a _burn_ in someone’s eyes. Like an avenging angel.”

Javert pauses a moment, half annoyed by such a dramatic description on the captain’s part-it was the sort of thing pirates wanted, after all- but half feeling his suspicion about Rene grow. If he was not only sailing with Valjean now, if he was the captain of his consort ship….

“What did he look like?” Javert asks, latching on to the captain’s words. “We’ll need some sort of description if there are wanted posters to be put up alongside Fauchelevent and his quartermaster’s.”

“Tall,” Captain Benjamin answers. “Blond hair. He was wearing a red coat. Blue eyes.”

“You remember his eye color?” Michel asks, surprised.

Captain Benjamin turns, looking at Michel again.

“You would too, if he looked at you like that,” he replies. “You would never forget them.”

They remain for another fifteen minutes or so, gaining details of the battle and the repairs and the journey home before leaving Captain Benjamin to his rest. They take a carriage back to Michel’s office out of reflex, remaining mostly silent on the journey, each lost to their own thoughts. Once they arrive and they’re inside with the door closed, the first words out of Michel’s mouth bewilder Javert entirely.

“Did you know pirates have codes?” he asks, folding his hands behind his back, pacing behind his desk. “Articles of agreement they sign. One of the pirates we arrested last month, he said something to me about it.”

“I’d heard of it,” Javert says, itching to speak his mind. “Why do you ask?”

“What Benjamin said about his expectations of them,” Michel answers. “How many more people underestimate the damage they do? How many frame them as drunken sailors with no purpose? They certainly have one. They haven’t been deemed the _enemies of all mankind_ for nothing.”

There’s something exceedingly off about Michel’s tone, about the way his words come out quick and tangled, the way he looks not at Javert but ahead of him, something like guilt, something like confusion, something like _questioning_ in his voice.

“Yes,” Javert answers. “They would burn the world down, if given the chance. There is no respect for law and order, for civilization itself, and Benjamin should have known better than to underestimate his enemy.” He stops a moment, and when Michel still has that faraway look on his face, he pushes ahead anyway. “Michel, about the consort ship captain…”

“Nicholas,” he says, a warning in his tone Javert’s never heard directed at him before, finally sitting down in his chair, but Javert remains standing.

“Sir,” Javert presses, reverting to the old term, frustrated. “I am not saying I have absolute proof, I’m saying that I have suspicions, and they are not without merit. You heard Benjamin’s description of the man and I saw Valjean’s myself on Nassau. He looked back as he took me out of the tavern and he was _hiding_ something. I told you about the clues; the coffee cup, the blond hairs on Valjean’s coat. The word we heard years ago of the blond young man who injured one of your fellow East India captains. That’s a lot of talent with a sword for someone so young as he would have been then.”

“You have been anxious to capture Valjean and Fantine since I have known you,” Michel says, irritation in his tone, and for a fleeting moment, Javert considers this is how Rene must have felt when arguing with his father; Michel Enjolras is many things, and stubborn is certainly one of them. “Can you not understand my concerns about your ideas about Rene and Frantz being among them? You want it to be true.”

“Sir,” Javert says again, still deferential, but firm, resting his hands on the back of the chair opposite Michel’s desk. “Before today I was only partially certain, but after hearing Captain Benjamin’s story, when I heard the description of the man who injured him, of Valjean’s second captain…you cannot deny the similarities. It’s all adding up to what could possibly be the truth.”

 “I simply cannot entertain the idea that my son, my only child, and the son of…Arthur,” he says, choking on the name. “Could be pirates. Not without solid proof. If you find that, I will listen and we will act accordingly.”

A chasm forms between them, a space Javert isn’t sure how to reach across, and he finally sits down, folding his hands atop Michel’s desk. Michel leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away. Not for the first time Javert feels the push to fill Arthur’s shoes and Rene’s shoes all at once, caught as he is between being Michel’s protégée and his friend. They are in some ways equals now, but Javert knows that Michel was more of a father to him than his own ever was, and he considers that it gives him a vulnerability he wasn’t counting on. He isn’t Arthur and he isn’t Rene, but some sort of odd melding of the two, allowed more argument than Rene would have been, but not allowed as much as Arthur. Irritation at Michel’s stubbornness grows sharp in his chest, but it mixes with a concern he cannot deny, a concern about just how much this will hurt Michel if his suspicions are true, for the consequences are no doubt manifold.

“I simply feel that I owe you what I feel is potentially the truth after everything that you have done for me,” Javert says, and he sees Michel sit forward in his chair again at those words, something softening a fraction in his expression. “I do not wish to you see blindsided by it, nor to see someone else attempt to undo you with the information if my suspicions turn out to be true.”

It goes quiet again, and Michel studies him before reaching out and covering Javert’s hand for a moment before drawing back, sitting up straight again.

“I am unfortunately due at a party in a few hours,” Michel says. “Our friends the Donnellys are hosting, and I must accompany Astra, particularly given my father in law is out of town. But I do have a new bottle of brandy in my drawer that needs opening, if you’d care to stay.”

“Certainly,” Javert says, feeling relieved that at least if they haven’t come to an agreement, that Michel has not remained angry with him.

Michel reaches into his drawer and pulls out two glasses and undoes the cap on the brandy bottle, pouring a measure for each of them.

 “Nicholas?” he asks after taking his first sip, and Javert is sure he doesn’t like the sound in his voice.

Javert looks at him, indicating that he’s listening.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t let all of this with Valjean overly affect you,” Michel says. “He is decidedly a priority, that goes without question. But don’t let it occupy too many of your thoughts.”

“I shall try,” Javert says, meeting Michel’s eyes.

Michel nods, smiling again, the mentor in him overtaking for a moment the more equal friends they’ve become.

It is, Javert thinks, the first time he’s told Michel anything close to a lie.

* * *

**Caribbean Sea near the coast of Trinidad. 1715.**

Grantaire raises his hand, hesitating for a split second before knocking on the door to the captain’s cabin. He enters at hearing Enjolras’ voice calling him in; Enjolras is writing something as Grantaire closes the door behind him, a piece of his hair falling from its tie, and he pushes it behind his ear with frustration. His quill scratches across the parchment, and then he looks up, eyes widening in surprise at seeing the person standing before him.

“Grantaire,” he says, friendly but surprised, and Grantaire has that odd feeling of someone having knocked the air out of him that he sometimes gets when he’s around Enjolras, which is aggravating given the obvious frequency of the occurrence. It doesn’t always happen, but there’s something about certain expressions on his face, a particular look of passion in his eyes that sparks the sensation.

“That is my name,” Grantaire jokes, doing a mock bow and though still bewildered, Enjolras gives him a small smile. “Not entirely sure of the meaning, granted. Though Chema is apparently some kind of Hebrew variant of Manuela. I should ask Bahorel. Though he’s frightful with his Hebrew, sometimes. I should ask his mother instead and she’d lecture him for not knowing, and I always do like seeing Bahorel lectured by his mother.”

“I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear that,” Enjolras says with a wryness indicative of Combeferre’s influence. “Is there…something you needed?”

“I cannot simply come say hello to my friend the captain?” Grantaire asks.

“Well, yes,” Enjolras says. “But you knocked, and that’s not quite like you.”

“I’m not polite?” Grantaire teases. “That’s rude of you, Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.”

“All right, all right you’ve caught me,” Grantaire says, sitting down across from Enjolras. “But I haven’t come for a favor. In fact, I’ve come to possibly do one for you.”

Enjolras continues looking at him, indicating that he’s open to listening, and Grantaire goes on.

“Well I know you’re sending Prouvaire and Eponine out on that reconnaissance,” Grantaire begins. “Since Eponine has proved talented.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, confused at the conversation’s direction. “She has. No one suspects a woman listening in on their conversations.”

“And I also know that Bossuet is a bit ill with a cold. I would know, bastard’s probably giving it to me as well. And that Courfeyrac and Bahorel have too much to tend to on the ship at present, and you’d originally wanted a third man, or well, woman, we are striving for equality here, on the job, so to speak,” Grantaire says. “But someone you knew had the sort of experience needed. That you trusted. You didn’t want to send a new man out blind.”

“That’s true,” Enjolras says, drawing out his words, unsure if he knows where Grantaire is headed.

“Well,” Grantaire says, pushing forward. “I thought I might volunteer.”

Enjolras gazes at him a moment, then frowns.

“Do not tease me Grantaire,” he says, disapproval in his voice. “Be serious.”

“I would _never_ tease you,” Grantaire says, and when Enjolras raises his eyebrows, he relents. “All right, I would, but I’d like a chance to do this.”

“You?” Enjolras says, disbelief in his voice.

“Why thank you, I can just sense the confidence,” Grantaire snarks.

“No it’s…” Enjolras says, softening.

“What?” Grantaire asks. “Have I not experience with all types of sailors since I was a lad, given my father’s profession? Have I not proved my loyalty to this crew?”

“You have,” Enjolras answers. “And I would not doubt your loyalty at all. I am just surprised. You have not shown interest in doing this sort of thing before. That you do your duty is certain. But you have not expressed a desire to do more. You’ve expressed a skepticism that what we’re doing can spread beyond our direct livelihood. You have said you are not sure you believed it, that the ideas we discuss are sustainable or capable of spreading beyond pirates, or even to all pirates.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, muttering now, but he looks Enjolras directly in the eyes. “I believe in what _you’re_ doing.”

Enjolras considers him a moment, tilting his head, and something about it makes him look even younger than his twenty-five years.

“All right,” he finally says. “I will consent to try it out, as long as Prouvaire agrees.”

“Prouvaire adores me,” Grantaire says, grinning now. “He won’t say no.”

“You know what the objective is then?” Enjolras asks. “Prouvaire is going to speak to some of the French aristocrats who still live there…”

“Trinidad is a Spanish colony,” Grantaire interrupts.

“So it is,” Enjolras says. “But a great deal of French citizens live there because they helped settle it.”

“So much changing of hands over lands that weren’t theirs in the first place I can’t keep up,” Grantaire says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and his lips quirk upward again. “Prouvaire is going to speak to that contingent, as there are apparently French naval officers on the island at present, and he will have no issue fitting in. Eponine is set to be his escort and speak with the women there about the efforts of the French navy against piracy. The idea was that another man would go to the tavern and ingratiate themselves with the Spanish regulars there. If we’ve learned anything, it’s that naval sailors from any country will gossip about their officers, and we want to know if, now that the war between England and Spain has ended, if the three main powers plan to move against piracy together. Instead of attacking each other, that is.”

“An intriguing concept, though I’m not sure they could get along well enough,” Grantaire says, something occurring to him. “Enjolras, I know you’re sending Prouvaire and Eponine because they speak French as well as English, but you know I’m Spanish. That I speak it fluently goes along with that.”

“I know,” Enjolras says. “But it’s as I said, I didn’t know you were interested. And both Prouvaire and I are a bit hesitant to send a man alone.”

“It’s a tavern, Enjolras,” Grantaire protests. “I know my way around one. And the others that do this always have meeting times and places to report back, correct?”

“Correct,” Enjolras echoes.

“It sounds like a reasonable plan to me,” Grantaire replies. He leans forward, hands still folded atop the desk. “Be easy. I’ll be all right.”

Enjolras consents, surprise seemingly etched permanently onto his face, and roughly two hours later, Grantaire finds himself on deck with Prouvaire and Eponine as they wait for the longboat to be lowered, the wind making their stolen Spanish flag whip in the breeze.

“My don’t you look lovely,” Grantaire says to Eponine, whose hair is out from under its usual hat and done in a neat up do, her trousers discarded for a dress.

“Don’t you dare tease me,” Eponine grumbles. “I have to look like this, I can’t very well walk in there in trousers and a tri-corner now can I?”

“So you cannot,” Grantaire says. “Who did your hair?”

“Fantine and Cosette,” Eponine replies, glancing over at the _Misericorde_ , which sits next to the Liberte in the bay. “And Chantal made this dress before we left, so it fits properly, at least. It’s not squeezing me to death.”

They climb into a the longboat a few moments later, Bahorel and Courfeyrac waving merrily at them as they go down, and Prouvaire turns, looking at Grantaire with a somber expression.

“I need you to be back at the discussed location at the time I said,” Prouvaire says, looking him in the eye.

“Do you not trust me my dear poet?” Grantaire asks.

“Of course I do Grantaire you’re my friend,” Prouvaire says, gentle even in his lecturing. “I know you would defend this crew with your life. That you care about all of us. But you have not done this before and it can be difficult the first time.”

“I’m excellent at blending in,” Grantaire argues, arms sore from rowing already. “And I can talk to nearly anyone.”

“Which is why both Enjolras and I agreed to this,” Prouvaire says. “But I still need to know you’re taking as seriously as it requires. This is dangerous if they realize who we are, and I don’t want you hurt.”

“I understand, Jehan,” Grantaire says, reaching out and clasping his friend’s shoulder, removing the teasing from his voice.

Prouvaire nods, chasing away the somberness with a smile that lights up his eyes.

And Grantaire does go in with best of intentions.

There’s no trouble getting what he needs; getting information out of Spanish sailors who haven’t seen land or liquor in several weeks isn’t the difficult part. Keeping track of time, it turns out, is the difficult part because he blended in so well he found himself very nearly having fun. He finishes his drink, the sailors laughing raucously around him, when he jolts, getting the sense that more time has passed than he realized. He pulls out his pocket watch.

“Dammit,” he breathes, getting up from his stool and nearly sending the glass toppling over.

He bids his Spanish compatriots goodnight and dashes out the door, nearly running into a person on the other side.

“Ah!” he exclaims. “Watch where you’re…” he looks up, jumping when he realizes who stands before him; a hat and a bandana wrapped around his face might obscure most of his visage, but Grantaire knows those eyes anywhere.

“Enjolras,” he whispers. “What the devil? This place is crawling with Spanish and French naval officers and in case you haven’t noticed your likeness is now on wanted posters.”

“And you are an hour late for your meeting point,” Enjolras says, seizing his the sleeve of his coat and pulling him behind a grove of trees and removing the bandana.

“So send someone else whose face doesn’t look like the damn archangel painted on a cathedral ceiling,” Grantaire says, feeling angrier than he expects.

“I was already worried about losing someone else if you’d been caught,” Enjolras insists. “So I came myself. Valjean and Prouvaire were about to gather a group to send after you, if it came to it. I told you to take this seriously.”

“Well I got the information,” Grantaire says, crossing his arms, annoyed. He knows he should apologize for his lateness, but he can’t make the words come out. “So you don’t need to be worried about that.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen slightly, his expression softening an inch, but there’s still irritation flaring in his eyes.

“I’m glad of it,” he says. “But do you truly think that’s what I’m angry about?”

“Isn’t it?” Grantaire shoots back. “You said it was important.”

“It _is_ ,” Enjolras emphasizes. “But not as important as the lives of the people who sail under our flag. That includes you.”

Grantaire opens his mouth then closes it again, finding himself without a response.

“You were worried about me?”

“I would think that was obvious, given that I came here looking for you,” Enjolras says.

“But you were angry,” Grantaire insists.

“Yes because you were late and we were all concerned,” Enjolras says. “I don’t think anger precludes caring, as far as I’m aware.”

“Oh, don’t use sarcasm against me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, unable to keep a small smile from his lips. But there’s something in Enjolras’ eyes indicating he has something to say, so he falls quiet again.

“You are my friend like any of the others, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, sincerity in his voice. “That I would be worried for your safety I would think should go without saying. But in case not, I’m saying it now.”

“I know you care about all the sailors,” Grantaire says. “But you know what I mean, Enjolras. The other eight of our particular group, all of you, not to mention Valjean or Fantine or Cosette, all of you have an easier time believing than I do. In looking at this…larger picture I sometimes cannot see.”

At this, some of the tension in Enjolras’ shoulders releases, and he puts a hand on Grantaire’s arm as he so often does with the others.

“It doesn’t make you any less a part of our inner circle,” Enjolras says. “Besides, as I’m sure Joly and Bossuet would say, what are friends for if not to help us? All I’d ever ask is the effort.”

There’s something like a glow in Enjolras’ eyes as he speaks, desperate as he always is to make belief burgeon in other people. Grantaire thinks back to all he knows about Enjolras’ childhood in Port Royal, and thinks that his particular brand of resilience, of holding onto hope, holding on to the insistence that there was a better way for himself and for Combeferre, which stretched into there being a better way for civilization itself, is a trait he cannot do anything but admire despite all the voices shouting inside his mind to the contrary. An almost tangible light surrounds Enjolras, and Grantaire finds himself inevitably drawn to toward it.

For once Grantaire doesn’t answer in a long string of words but returns the arm clasp, and they start walking back together a sort of newness resting between, another layer of understanding.

“So the information,” Enjolras asks, proceeding back to the matter at hand, and Grantaire finds he’s grateful, given the lump forming in his throat. “Prouvaire and Eponine reported that there has been some correspondence between high ranking officers from France, Spain, and England on the piracy issue, but they have not had a summit of any sort, as of yet. But that there were obvious tensions.”

“The sailors in the tavern are still riled up over the war, given how fresh the memory is,” Grantaire says. “They aren’t keen on any sort of international coalition, what with men lost at England’s hands, and all of that. They seem fine with the idea of pirates attacking other ships as long as they aren’t Spanish.”

“Except there’s no way of preventing that,” Enjolras replies, finishing the thought for him.

“No,” Grantaire says. “There’s not. We make no favorites after all.” He pauses, wincing outwardly as he remembers Prouvaire. “How angry is Jehan?”

“He was more concerned than anything else,” Enjolras says, looking back over at him, a hint of teasing in his eyes now. “And I know he’ll be relieved. And you’ll earn some forgiveness for having gotten the information we were after. Though he did mention that when you got back he was going to make you transcribe the notes into the log for being late and making him worry.”

“Ah well my handwriting is a bit dreadful but that I can do,” Grantaire says. “As long as he doesn’t make me write any poetry, I’ll do whatever he likes. He’d only be disappointed in my verse, I’m afraid. Despite my love of Classics I am certainly not Homer.”

Enjolras chuckles at that, shaking his head.

“Put that bandana back around your face,” Grantaire chides, realizing Enjolras has neglected it. “We don’t want anyone seeing you.”

“Because I look like a damn archangel painted on a cathedral ceiling?” Enjolras asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Grantaire says, grinning now and giving Enjolras a small shove as he often does Joly or Bossuet or Bahorel. “Exactly.”

* * *

**The Western Atlantic Ocean near the coast of Nassau. 1715.**

Enjolras waits on the _Liberte_ , one foot on the gangplank as he listens to Courfeyrac speak to the merchant ship captain, who struck his colors but whose men still held up their arms as they boarded.

“You struck your colors when we fired a warning shot across your bow,” Courfeyrac says, injecting a stern, disappointed tone into his voice. “That implies you were ready to surrender and let us take what we will. Including the slaves we suspect you have on board.”

“We weren’t sure we could trust you,” the captain responds, grimacing, hand gripping his pistol.

“Well now I imagine you’ve broken my trust,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras hears the mischief in his voice even from here. “Kindly call your men off the canons and lower your arms and then we can speak. We have no desire to harm you.”

The captain freezes, clearly still having trouble trusting Courfeyrac’s words, and he knows that’s his cue. He walks with a pointed, loud step across the gangplank, boots echoing in the quiet dusk around them, and the sees the captain and crews’ heads turn toward him, the edges of his red coat fluttering in the wind. He steps onto the deck hard, folding his hands behind his back and standing up straight, making no move for any of his weapons. Combeferre stands next to Courfeyrac, one hand on his pistol, his excellent reflexes ready if they’re needed. Bossuet and Grantaire stand next to him, hands on the hilts of their swords, and Feuilly stands near the rail, ready to signal Prouvaire and Bahorel to fire if necessary. Much to his chagrin, Gavroche, nearing sixteen and stubborn, stands among the other twenty or so of his men who have boarded, sword at the ready, blue bandana keeping his dark blond hair out of his face.

_Stay on the ship_ , _Gavroche_ , Enjolras said earlier. _You can do plenty there._

_You were fighting on Valjean’s ship at my age_ , Gavroche sassed back. _And I least I look like I need to shave. They’ll probably think I’m older than you!_

He chances a glance over at the younger man, who winks saucily at him, and Enjolras does his best to frown, though he suspects his eyes give him away.

“The Avenging Angel,” the captain breathes, taking a step back. “You’re him. Everyone in the region’s heard about you.”

“I am,” Enjolras says, not moving from his spot, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Combeferre trying mightily not to smirk. “And what have you heard?” Enjolras asks.

“That your sword is like lighting,” the captain says, and behind him, Enjolras sees some of the men lowering their arms. “That you have outrun and defeated the British navy. That you and your flagship have stolen a legendary amount of goods.” He pauses, and Enjolras sees the fear in his eyes. “That you are a monster who will not be deterred.”

At this Enjolras steps forward, and the man winces despite the fact that Enjolras still isn’t laying a hand on him.

“You might have also heard that I am merciful,” Enjolras says in a whisper. “Or perhaps those who would smear my name left that part of the story out. It is not helpful to their narrative, I imagine, to let sailors know that if ships we board surrender, we have no need for bloodshed.”

The captain’s eyes widen, something breaking through his expression as if he understands something he didn’t before but doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“I suppose not,” he says, taking another step back.

“How many slaves are aboard this ship?” Enjolras asks.

“Two,” the captain answers without pause. “One African woman, one gypsy woman.”

“Romani,” Enjolras says out of a reflex he didn’t know he possessed.

“Yes,” the captain says, quick with his words.

“I would like you to lay down your arms and call your men off the canons as my quartermaster suggested,” Enjolras continues, softening his voice just slightly. “And I promise no harm will come to you.”

“Why should I trust you?” the man asks, but his grip on his pistol loosens.

“I think the more pertinent question is why should I trust you?” Enjolras asks. “I don’t believe I’m the one carrying human beings as cargo.”

The captain looks at him for a moment before he frowns, finally gesturing at his men to lay down their arms and calling out for the men below to abandon their canons.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says. “Now tell me where the slaves and any other goods are located and we will be on our way.”

The captain does, and once he’s ascertained it’s not a trick Enjolras calls his men off, bidding them to lower their weapons.

“Sweep the hold!” he calls out. “And the captain’s cabin.”

He turns away from the captain at the feeling of Bossuet’s hand on his shoulder.

“My but you are simply terrifying,” Bossuet teases. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“I’m certain,” Enjolras says, smiling, and he feels the eyes of the merchant crew on him. “You look pleased, did you win a bet?”

“As a matter of fact I did,” Bossuet says, amusement in his eyes. “I made one with Grantaire when we spotted the ship. He said he didn’t think they would surrender, as ships with slaves are usually far more hesitant, I said this one was smaller and that if we played it right, they would be too frightened not to give in.”

“You know it’s against our articles to gamble on the ship,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. “I would be showing favoritism if I knew of it and didn’t report to Courfeyrac.”

“Ah but I _am_ one of your favorites, Enjolras,” Bossuet says, clasping his shoulder. “There’s no denying that. Besides we took a look at the articles and it only expressly forbids gambling via card games. It makes no mention of anything else.”

“A loophole,” Enjolras says.

“Grantaire does love them,” Bossuet remarks.

A half an hour later  after they’ve removed the slaves, several chests full of silks, and a chest of coins, Enjolras turns again at the sound of the captain’s voice as they prepare to leave.

“Who are you?” he asks, a wondrous quality in his voice, laced with a very real fear.  

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks.

“What’s your name?” the captain presses. “Your real one?”

“You don’t need to know it,” Enjolras replies, turning on his heel but looking back behind him. “I prefer to leave the associations it carries behind me.”

With that he goes, and once he sees that they’re underway to set sail with Combeferre at the wheel he goes below, seeing Joly inspecting the two slave women for injuries as Feuilly assures them of their safety. Joly bobs around them, chattering merrily, and Enjolras sees weary smiles break through on both women’s faces.

“You’re in the best hands here with Joly and Feuilly,” Enjolras says. “You are safe with us.”

“Thank you,” the Romani woman says, reaching out to clasp his hand. “We were both on a sugar plantation, but they were sending us to work in houses, my friend here to somewhere in the Leeward Islands and myself to Jamaica. To a man called Travers, I think. A baron.”

Enjolras starts, surprised. They’ve rescued countless slaves since his time sailing with Valjean, and yet he never expected to run into something like this. Though if he’s honest, the idea of stealing a slave out from under his grandfather, if that is the Travers she mentioned, makes him wish he could see the fury on the man’s face.

“I’m glad we could help,” Enjolras answers. “And I hope you can find some rest here.”

“What will happen now?” the other woman asks.

“We will go back to Nassau,” Enjolras answers. “There are people there who can help either get you where you’d like to go, or to find a place for you on the island. Two women my crew and my flagships’ crew know well recently redid an abandoned house to make sleeping space for people in situations like yours. One of them is the mother of my sailing master and the other is a friend. She is Romani, as it happens,” Enjolras says, looking back at the first woman.

“You didn’t say gypsy,” she responds, tilting her head in curiosity.

“I know it is not what you prefer,” Enjolras says, hearing Javert’s voice in his head, hearing the shame and the loathing in it as he told him about his heritage. “I should let Joly tend to you, and Feuilly will show you where you can sleep.”

They thank him once more and he goes up and into the captain’s cabin, where he finds Courfeyrac sorting through the goods and Marius making notes in the ledger.

“Everything sorting out?” Enjolras asks, removing his hat and going to sit down on his bed as Marius occupies his desk.

“Nearly,” Marius says. “Just dividing up the shares of the coins and writing down names of the merchants who might purchase the silks from us. It shouldn’t take long given that there are no injury payments to give out. It’s the third merchant ship in a row that’s surrendered to us, so we’re saving a great deal of money with so little ship damage.”

“Marius is grumpy,” Courfeyrac says, counting the silks in each box. “So it’s taking longer than it should.”

“I am not,” Marius insists, annoyed.

“We’ve been gone from Nassau just shy of a month and he misses Cosette,” Courfeyrac adds. “Who is home tending her injured father, I might add.”

Enjolras watches them go back and forth, remembering a few weeks ago when Valjean received a bullet to the arm. It hadn’t lodged in and there wasn’t danger of him losing the limb, but Fantine insisted he stay home until it healed fully and Joly had agreed, citing worry over an infection, so they’d come out on their own.

“I know why,” Marius argues. “I’m simply saying I could have stayed there as well.”

“No,” Courfeyrac argues back. “We required you, and besides do you not enjoy my company? I’m offended, Marius.”

“Oh please,” Marius says, looking back at his books and trying not to smile. “Don’t be foolish, of course I do.”

“Just not more than Cosette’s,” Courfeyrac teases, looking back up at Enjolras. “Everything all right, Rene?”

“Should be,” Enjolras says. “Although….one of the women said she’d been set to go work in the house of a Travers in Jamaica. A baron, she thought.”

“Oh _my_ ,” Courfeyrac says, grinning. “Have we finally managed to accidentally steal from your grandfather? That would make my day. You should tell Combeferre, I’m certain he would throw a party.”

“I don’t know of any other Baron Travers in Jamaica,” Enjolras says, catching Courfeyrac’s grin.

“Oh but he will be _furious_ ,” Courfeyrac says. “Not that we are in this to settle personal scores of course, but it is a rather nice side achievement.”

“I admit, imagining his face does please me,” Enjolras says.

“As it should,” Courfeyrac says, hopping up and sitting on Enjolras’ desk as he finishes counting the silks, a likely attempt to annoy Marius, who doesn’t like being interrupted while he works. “He was the most wretched man I’ve ever met.”

“Something about grandfathers, apparently,” Marius adds, still writing, and Courfeyrac turns, smiling fondly and squeezing his shoulder.

“Indeed,” Enjolras says, looking at the both of them for a moment before his eyes close and leans back against the wall. “Indeed.”

They arrive in Nassau a few days later exactly on the time they’d predicted, thanks to a good wind and Combeferre’s skills, finding a group of people waiting for them. Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette greet them all with smiles and shoulder clasps. Valjean seizes Feuilly with his good arm, embracing him and laughing, the years and stress fading away at the sight of his nephew. Enjolras watches Eponine go up to Gavroche, poking at him for any sign of injury, and though he squirms he still looks pleased. Chantal wraps Combeferre up in an embrace, handing him some sort of seedling in a pot, no doubt another plant to add to Combeferre’s collection on their windowsill in their room at Valjean’s house. Both of Bahorel’s sisters and his mother descend upon him and Prouvaire both, the two of them lost in a sea of cheek kisses. He watches Musichetta ruffle Grantaire’s hair before she places swift kisses on both Joly and Bossuet’s lips, dark brown hair tied at the back of her neck and flowing down.

“Rene Enjolras,” she calls out, and he turns around, walking over toward them.

“Hello, Musichetta,” he says, placing a kiss on her hand when she offers it.

“You brought these two back to me unharmed again and you managed what seems a rather impressive haul,” she says, watching the men unload the chests from the merchant ship. “The whole island’s been talking about you, you know. My employer at the book shop said people are calling you the Avenging Angel.”

“You should see him Musichetta,” Joly says, looking proud. “It is truly something to behold, as if Enjolras possesses all the righteousness heaven has to offer and our enemies cannot stand up against it.”

“Well I certainly don’t do it on my own,” Enjolras says, feeling his cheeks warm. “I have excellent sailors.”

“So you do,” Joly says, his eyes twinkling. “But still, I think someone should do a painting of you when you stand up to those captains. It would be something to behold.”

“You’re making him blush now Joly,” Bossuet says. “Do leave the poor man alone.”

“It is our right to tease him as his friends,” Musichetta says, winking at Enjolras.

“So it is,” Enjolras says with a chuckle, spotting Tiena at the edge of the crowd. “I need to speak to Tiena about the two women we rescued, but I’ll see all of you at the tavern later.”

They bid him farewell and he watches them go, Musichetta’s arms around the two of them, Joly and Bossuet’s hands linked together over the small of Musichetta’s back. He walks over to Tiena, who seems to be waiting for him.

“You made it back safely I see,” she says in greeting, and every time he looks at her eyes, he sees the uncanny resemblance they bear to her son’s. “And successfully.”

“We did,” Enjolras replies. There’s a space between them as there always is, filled with the memories of someone they both cared about, someone who rejected them both eventually, but about whom it is difficult to share words, as if they both fear saying his name will alert him to their presence, as if it will open up wounds they both know are only half-healed but about which they wish they could forget. “Actually we found two women enslaved on the merchant ship we boarded, and I was hoping there would be room in the new quarters you've secured for them?”

“There is,” she answers, a small smile on her lips.

“One of them is a Romani woman, actually,” Enjolras says. “She seemed like she might have interest in staying here long term, possibly.”

A sort of vulnerability he doesn’t normally see grows in her expression, though he cannot tell what she’s thinking. She reaches out, brushing her hand across his shoulder in some kind of affection, and he feels the same pull toward her that he’d felt toward her son, an echo of the same emotion that he isn’t sure he can act on.

“You are a good man Rene,” she says, eyes darting upward toward the scar above his eyebrow. “And I hope...I hope that one day those who don’t recognize that will.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Truly.”

She nods at him, and after he introduces her to the two women and sees them off, he heads over to Chantal and Combeferre, the latter of whom is holding his new plant proudly. Chantal embraces him before he even says hello, the side braid she always wears tickling his cheek as she pulls back.

“Glad to have you home,” she says, tapping the tip of his nose with her finger. Chantal is different from his own mother in many ways, but he sees shades of Astra within her. She is not covered in secrets as his mother had been, but she loves him in the way he’d seen Astra love Combeferre, filling in for an absence she knows she can never quite fill, but with a genuine caring he finds himself at home in, just as he did with Arthur.

“I see you found Frantz a new plant,” he says, a slight teasing in his voice. “Not sure there’s much room on the windowsill there, my friend.”

“Ah but this one is for the outside,” Combeferre corrects him. “It’s a sea grape plant. It will take a while for it to grow, but it bears fruit in the summer, which can be made into jams, you see, or fermented into wine, which ought to please some of our friends. The wood of it can also be made into charcoal and the sap used for tanning leather. So it could prove useful.”

“So it could,” Enjolras says, feeling warmth at his friend’s enthusiasm.

“Joly has promised to help me tend it,” Combeferre continues as they walk in the direction of the tavern. “So has Prouvaire, for that matter.”

He listens to Chantal and Combeferre chatter as they make their way into the tavern, and once they’re inside he finds there’s the usual level of noise, though a bit less raucous than normal, though it is still early. Over in the corner he sees Cosette standing by Anne Bonny and Jack Rackham’s table, telling them some sort of story that makes Anne emit a peal of laughter. Enjolras has not heard Anne Bonny laugh like that before, and given her reputation plenty of even the bravest pirates are afraid of her, but he’s not surprised that Cosette, who is afraid of very little and who charms nearly everyone, could manage it. They sit down at a table near the bar, and Enjolras hears a deep voice behind him.

“I’m hearing quite the stories about you, Enjolras,” the voice says, and Enjolras recognizes it, turning to see Edward Teach standing behind him, his black beard even wilder than last time they’d seen one another, his usual pistols strapped to his belt.

“Teach,” Enjolras says in greeting. “Speaking of stories, I heard you lit your beard on fire.”

“So I did,” Teach responds, looking pleased. “Scared the daylights out of the ship we boarded and didn’t have to spill a drop of blood. No burns either.”

“Impressive,” Enjolras remarks.

“You’re making quite the name for yourself lad,” Teach says, and he gives Enjolras something like a smile, though it gets lost in his beard. “I’m sure that father of yours would be quite displeased, which means you’re doing it right.”

“Does _everyone_ know who my father is?” Enjolras questions.

“Worst kept secret on Nassau,” Teach says. “But pirates are good secret keepers, never you fear. There’s plenty of men who don’t want certain parts of civilization knowing who they used to be. Including your mentor,” he says, eyes flitting over to Valjean, who sits at the bar with Feuilly, talking softly. “You keep doing what you’re doing. Though of course remember you will never as frightening as me, of course.”

“Of course,” Enjolras echoes, and Teach claps him on the back.

With that Teach bids him farewell, and he’s only gone a moment before someone else approaches, and Enjolras sees Fantine’s hand smack a newspaper down on the table in front of him, glee in her face.

“Well hello there Rene,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “Or should I say, the Avenging Angel.”

“Is it in the papers now?” Enjolras asks, picking it up and reading the headline _Avenging Angel strikes again!_ “What is this terrible sketch they’ve done?”

Fantine laughs more, pointing to the second paragraph. “Apparently you take pleasure in watching their blood spatter your skin. According to this.”

“Why are you laughing?” Enjolras grumbles, eyes still scanning the page.

“Because it is so utterly ridiculous that if people believed it I’d feel sorry for them,” Fantine answers, sitting down across from him. “So where do you keep your halo? In your cabin on the ship? Frantz and Auden share it with you, they must surely know.”

Next to him Combeferre shakes with laughter and Enjolras glares at him, though much to his disappointment it has no effect.

“Fantine,” Enjolras says, hearing the whine in his voice.

“Oh darling I’m teasing you,” Fantine says, flicking him in the arm.

“Well I saw you kissing Bahorel when we arrived in the bay,” Enjolras shoots back.

“And?” Fantine asks, arching one eyebrow, a half-smile playing at her lips.

“I’m trying to tease _you_ ,” Enjolras insists.

“Ah well I can’t be teased about that,” she says, a full-smile breaking out now as she leans forward toward him, folding her hands. “I’ll kiss who I like.”

“Courfeyrac teased Bahorel frequently when he suspected Bahorel’s affections for you,” Enjolras says.

“Yes well you men are never quite as mature as us, I’m afraid,” she says, hitting the edge of his hat, and now Enjolras cannot help but laugh. “Isn’t that right, Cosette?”

Cosette turns at the sound of her mother’s voice, scampering over and sitting down, curls bouncing as she goes.

“I agree with whatever my mother said,” Cosette replies.

“What did your mother say?” Bahorel asks, coming up to the table arm in arm with Prouvaire, both carrying glasses of wine.

“That women are more mature than men,” Fantine says.

“Ah well that’s simply a truth of nature,” Bahorel answers, sitting down with them. “Isn’t it Prouvaire?”

“Certainly,” Prouvaire answers, sitting down next to Bahorel.

“It seemed you were busy teasing our dear captain,” Bahorel says, grinning at Enjolras. “Pray tell about what?”

Enjolras pushes the paper over to him, and Bahorel laughs, the sound filling up the room and bouncing of the walls.

“It’s quite an intimidating nickname,” Bahorel says. “And we’re making excellent use of it besides. People are surrendering to us without a fight more and more. That’s a victory, I think.”

“That is true,” Enjolras says, looking again at the accompanying sketch, to which the artist has added rather sharp teeth. “And I’m glad of it. Although I am a bit offended by this sketch.”

“It is not the best image of you,” Combeferre says, looking at it himself.

“Joly was talking of paintings earlier,” Enjolras says. “Perhaps I should take him up on it. And then send it anonymously to the papers.”

“And a poem!” Prouvaire exclaims. “I’m certain I could do you justice.”

“I have no doubt, my friend,” Enjolras replies, earning a smile from Prouvaire. “I have no doubt.”

Soon everyone joins them, and Enjolras listens to his friends’ teasing and chatter and antics, feeling not for the first time, a sense of family that he so remembers missing in Port Royal. After a few minutes Valjean takes the empty chair next to him, sliding a glass of the sweet wine he likes best toward him.

“The papers have gotten wind of the Avenging Angel, I see,” Valjean whispers, and Enjolras hears something grave through his amusement.

“At least you are called Fauchelevent the Benevolent,” Enjolras says. “Though I admit, the fear of the name has served us well. It makes boarding ships easier, and there’s much less resistance on their part, far fewer lives lost. Part of it grates me that they are so determined to destroy us that they would reach to the sorts of ridiculous stories that are in this article, but then, the others help me to see the humor in it. And I believe that some people out there will refuse to fall for it and seek the truth for themselves.”

“Some of them certainly will,” Valjean says. “Everyone as this table is certainly a testament to that.”

Enjolras looks around, smiling again before turning back to Valjean.

“You’re worried about something,” he says, a statement rather than a question.

“As word of you spreads I believe we need to be more on the watch for Javert. And for your father,” Valjean says. “Before it was a bit easier, I could hide you among my crew. But now it is not so simple, and Javert was already on the trail.”

“I do not want to make a change to what I do for fear of them,” Enjolras says, respectful but firm.

“I know son,” Valjean says, and Enjolras appreciates that there’s no condescension in his voice. “We won’t. I just want to keep a weather eye out. Can you agree to that?”

Enjolras nods, and Valjean puts a fond hand on his cheek, swiping his thumb across, and yet Enjolras feels the worry in his very touch.

“I call for a toast!” Courfeyrac says, directing their attention to the front of the table. “To our recent victory and to our captain, Rene Enjolras. Or should I say…”

“Auden I will throw my wine on your new waistcoat,” Enjolras threatens, hearing the laugh break up his sentence.

“See there?” Courfeyrac teases. “That’s why people call you the Avenging Angel.”

Enjolras opts not to throw the wine, but drinks it instead, and Courfeyrac grins, coming over to him and putting an arm around his shoulders.

“To Enjolras!” he exclaims.

Everyone echoes the words merrily, and despite Valjean’s worry, despite his own, Enjolras cannot help the happiness flooding through every part of him.

* * *

 

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1715.**

Javert’s thoughts intrude upon him as he walks toward the Enjolras household; he’s meeting Michel so they might walk over to Baron Travers’ home together where they’re set for a dinner with Admiral Adams and a few other naval and East India officers. He straightens his coat as he goes, a newer one for the evening he bought a few weeks ago. Black, as are a great deal of things he owns that aren’t his uniform, much to the chagrin of Michel, who often tells him he shouldn’t always look so grave. He feels far more introspective than usual tonight, giving more credence to his internal turmoil than he likes. He’s been among the upper tiers of society for years through his connections with the Enjolrases, and now that he’s a naval captain he’s even more entrenched, finding himself at more parties where he feels awkward and with little to say. At least this dinner will involve talk of work and sailing and some politics, which are things he understands and things he can talk about, but sometimes despite his best efforts he still feels like that 12-year-old version of himself, standing on the outside of civilization and looking in. He has a place at the table, a place he could only have dreamed of then, but he is never entirely without the feeling of fear that someone will realize his background and pull away the chair.

He walks up the drive, remembering this morning and the hanging they’d witnessed. Two men who were known pirates that had stowed away on an East India ship who were given a capital sentence after they were discovered. Pirates were often sent to Port Royal for the trial and if necessary, execution, but these men were tried in Kingston, and as head of the anti-piracy joint effort, Javert and Michel were required to attend. It wasn’t the first hanging Javert had witnessed and he was certain it wouldn’t be the last. There was nothing different about this particular one, aside from the look he saw pass across Michel’s face as the men dropped, a look of deep melancholy mixed with pity and a dash of disgust, as though he felt sorry for the dying men but despised them still. It was gone as quickly as it came, though a frown remained on his face for a long while after.

There was something about it Javert could not forget. He’s found no new clues on Rene, only word spreading of the Avenging Angel he first heard of from Captain Benjamin, and each time he sees a headline with that ridiculous moniker in the paper, he feels more and more certain of his suspicions. The image of Michel’s face mixes with the men walking to the gallows, which mixes with Rene’s expression the night the boys ran away, and Javert remembers that it struck him like a bolt of lightning.

_How does the law dictate this ends if you find them?_ A voice says in the back of his mind, cold and merciless as the tone he takes with the pirates he captures.

Another image overtakes his brain, all piling together and coming in bursts; a mess of blond hair, spectacles, a sword and a map. A noose.

He waves it away with a metaphorical hand as he reaches the door, knocking and waiting for a response. The door opens revealing Mrs. Hudson the housekeeper, who has been with the Enjolrases as long as Javert can remember, greeting him more formally than she had when he was younger.

“Captain Javert,” she says now, instead of the Nicholas of earlier years. “Commodore Enjolras isn’t home yet but sent a note ahead to say he wouldn’t be more than ten minutes or so. But Madam is in the parlor.”

“I don’t want to bother her,” Javert protests.

 “Nonsense,” Mrs. Hudson answers. “She wouldn’t want you standing here in the entrance hall while she was home.”

Unable to think of any other excuses Javert follows her inside, handing off his hat and watching as she places it on the rack. Astra jumps slightly as they enter the parlor, what looks like several newspaper clippings sitting on the table next to her.

“Captain Javert is here for the commodore,” Mrs. Hudson says, noticing the flinch. “I didn’t think he needed announcing.”

“No no of course not,” Astra says, slowly piling the clippings but clearly trying not to make too much of a fuss. “Captain Javert is always welcome, he’s practically part of the family.”

Mrs. Hudson nods, offering Astra a smile as though she thinks the other woman needs it, and leaves them alone. Javert sits, watching as Astra stacks the clippings together, dropping one as she puts them into a case, and Javert leans over, picking it up for her and getting a glance at the headline.

_The Avenging Angel strikes again!_

He hands it back, and for the first time since he’s known her, red spread across Astra’s cheeks in some kind of embarrassment. As if she’s been caught.

“Thank you,” she says, taking it and shoving it into the case without her usual grace before she places it back on the table.

“They really should refrain from giving pirates such glorified or frightening names,” Javert remarks and Astra looks uncomfortable under his gaze. “It’s what they’re after and it frightens sailors into surrendering to them, frightens townspeople into saying their names in whispers. I’ve seen at least five mentions of the Avenging Angel in the papers the past few months, and it convinces people these villains are more monsters than men. Men can be killed, after all. Monsters perhaps less so.”

“Yes,” Astra says, folding her hands together tightly until the knuckles pop white. “You’re quite right. Though I imagine the sensationalism helps sell papers.”

“They are more interested in selling papers than the truth,” Javert continues, still studying her. “I saw something not too long ago about that Fauchelevent pirate standing eight feet tall, which is of course utterly impossible.”

“Quite,” Astra says, hand nearly knocking the case off the table at the name Fauchelvent, all her usual coolness evaporated, and he knows she was up to something, knows that somehow in this moment, more than one of her secrets is in danger, even if he doesn’t know quite what they are. Although at the very least, they seem related to his own suspicions.

Silence falls between them for a moment and Javert ceases his prying, know he should not ask her anything directly for propriety’s sake.

“Will you be at dinner with us this evening?” Javert asks, an attempt to restore normal conversation between them.

“I’m afraid not,” Astra responds, sitting up straighter now, though she fiddles nervously with a stray hair near her ear. “It’s just for you men. But I won’t be alone; my friend Mrs. Alan invited me to share dinner with her children and husband.”

Javert’s saved from responding by the sound of the front door opening, and Michel’s face appearing a few moments later.

“Astra,” he says, walking over to his wife and placing a kiss on her cheek that she accepts but does not return. “Thank you for entertaining Nicholas, someone kept me a few minutes at the office. I suppose it’s a good thing I brought my jacket to change into.”

“Of course,” she says, patting his hand, which rests on the arm of her chair. “Well I’d best be on my way now that you’re here, they were preparing the carriage for me. Thank you letting me use it, walking to the Alans’ in these shoes would have been an ordeal.”

“Certainly,” Michel says. “I’ll see you when you arrive home.”

She gives him a tight smile, nods at Javert and they watch until she’s beyond sight, the front door closing behind her a few seconds later. Michel looks off into the distance a moment before shaking his head, turning back to Javert.

“I know that I and others have nagged you about a potential marriage before, Nicholas,” he says, going over to the cart where a half empty bottle of brandy rests. “But perhaps you should be thankful you’re not; women are a bit of a puzzle, I’m afraid. Brandy? We have about twenty minutes before we need to begin walking to my father in law’s and we’ll still be early.”

Javert nods, accepting the glass when Michel hands it over, trying to bring up what he’d just seen without offense.

“Michel?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Michel responds, pouring a measure of brandy for himself.

“I saw something a bit strange just now,” Javert continues, precise and slow with his words. “I’m not entirely sure how to mention it. I do not want to cause offense.”

“Strange?” Michel asks, turning back around, a questioning look in his eyes.

“I saw Madam Enjolras going through newspaper clippings,” Javert says, meeting Michel’s eyes as he speaks. “Newspaper clippings about the Avenging Angel.”

Michel looks bewildered a moment, the pieces coming together behind his eyes. And although Javert expects the irritation he usually receives on this issue, he hears confused intrigue instead.

“Why would she collect those?” he asks, more to himself than to Javert.

“I’m not certain,” Javert answers. “She also seemed a bit sensitive to the mention of Fauchlevent, when he came up. Nervous. Almost as if she knows who he really is.”

Javert wants to push forward, wants to say again that Rene and Frantz are likely with Valjean, but it has gotten him nowhere before, so he remains silent, letting Michel fill in the blanks for himself. Michel’s quiet for a moment, studying his brandy, but when he finally looks back up at Javert, there’s a spark of something that Javert’s been waiting for.

“That Astra has secrets I’ve always known,” he says, and Javert hears something like suspicion in his voice. “But I have never been able to uncover many of them. I am not entirely sure how, but perhaps she has come to the same conclusion you have. About the boys and Valjean.”

“That was my thought as well,” Javert says, still allowing Michel to control the conversation, but something tells him perhaps the other man is finally willing to consider what has long been his suspicion.

“How she came to that conclusion is something I will have to find out,” Michel says. “Though I do not expect that to happen soon or happen easily. But perhaps….” he pauses a moment, looking sad, and for a moment Javert almost feels guilty for pushing the issue as he has. But in the end, he cannot. Not if it’s the truth.

“Perhaps,” Michel continues. “Perhaps after dinner you and I might sit down and discuss your thoughts on this. And I will listen. I was…I was studying some of the wanted posters that have gone up for the Avenging Angel and I…well it still could easily be another man, but the resemblance is still striking, even if only a sketch.”

“I would be glad to do that after dinner,” Javert answers.

“If we come to any conclusions,” Michel says, sounding almost stern now. “I would prefer they be kept between us, for now. Frame it as a search for Fauchelevent and the ever growing threat of his consort ship captain. It certainly won’t surprise anyone, given they are causing even more trouble now than before.”

“Understood sir,” Javert says. “We must proceed carefully on all fronts.”

“If Rene is this…this Avenging Angel,” Michel says, something cracking in his voice. “If Frantz is with him, if they are these…these criminals…I am not…I do not know what the answer is to that.”

The old anger Javert felt the night Rene and Frantz ran away emerges again, never quite dormant, built upon by the years of suspicion and his own grudge against Valjean and Fantine, upon his own fury at the way the boys left, the bubble of rage building and poised to burst, hot against his chest.

Michel’s question lingers in the air, unanswered.


	17. Book III (Swirling Up From The Sea): Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert and Michel capture Valjean's friend Captain Robins and four of his men in battle, taking them back to Jamaica for trial. Javert senses uncertainty and change in Michel, unsure how to confront it. Two weeks later, Valjean, the Amis and co, along with help from famous pirate Sam Bellamy, set out to rescue Captain Robins and his men from the gallows, and Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac find themselves returning to the shores of Port Royal. Later that night news reaches Kingston of the rescue, only growing Javert's suspicions about Enjolras and Valjean, and somewhere deep inside, he feels conflicted. When he goes to tell Michel the news, he's confronted with Astra's anger, and the two of them stand toe to toe. In a quiet moment after their triumph in Port Royal, the Amis compare scars on the beach in Nassau.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are at the beginning of Book III! It's going to be long, so I hope you are in for the ride! :D As a note on how this book differs from the other two, this is what I'd call the plottiest part of the fic, so there won't be big time jumps like there have been in the other two parts. Toward the end there will be a couple of jumps, but most of it is taking place days and weeks apart, etc. I'm VERY excited to get to this part of the fic, so I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Some notes on this particular chapter:
> 
> The historical pirate Sam Bellamy makes an appearance here. He was known for treating his captives kindly, and for taking down ships without a whole lot of bloodshed. He was often called "the prince of pirates" and his men were often called "Robin Hood's men" so he actually served as a big inspiration for Valjean in this fic, and I borrowed the Robin Hood idea from his legacy. He had a fleet of ships by the time he was in his mid twenties and died around 1717, very young. He was mentored under Benjamin Hornigold, like a lot of his peers. 
> 
> Another important note is that there is a dream sequence with Javert about halfway through this chapter, and it's in italics. So don't worry, nothing that is happening in the dream is actually happening! It has death/execution mentions in the dream, just as a warning but as I said at the beginning there won't be any canon character deaths in this fic. 
> 
> Bahorel makes reference to Hashem, which my research tells me is the Jewish term for God that is used casually, as opposed to Adonai, which is used in prayers. If I am incorrect about that, do let me know, as I am not Jewish. 
> 
> A couple of historical notes: when the British Queen died in 1714 it was kind of a mess and the House of Hanover, which was German, took over and a lot of people were angry about this and it actually led to more pirates fighting back against England. England was also at war with Spain until about 1715. You will see why this matters towards the start of the chapter! 
> 
> There's also mention of the origin of the mermaid, which is a pretty cool story I didn't know, so I recommend checking it out!

**Book III (Swirling Up From The Sea): Part 1**

**The Caribbean Sea. 1716**

Javert watches Michel give one last swing of his sword with his characteristic grace, knocking the weapon out of the pirate’s hand and summoning one of Javert’s officers over to bind the rogue. He’s lost his hat in the scuffle, his hair fallen out of its tie completely, and it hangs down, hitting his shoulders. The sun strikes him, emphasizing the silver strands at the top that have slowly taken root among the blond ones. There’s an intensity radiating from his expression, a focus as he sheaths his sword and examines the small wound on the top of his hand, blood dripping onto the sleeve of his red East India uniform coat, the gold edging looking liquid in the sunlight.

The last of the canon fire dies as Javert calls out the order, watching the smaller pirate ship sail away, a sloop with twenty guns which put up a reasonable fight against his own 40 gunner. The _Navigator_ was under repairs, and at the last moment Michel and some of his crewmen joined Javert on the _Chase_ ; someone spotted Captain Robins’ pirate ship near the coast of Kingston, alerting the two of them to the issue, and they’d left in a rush.

 “Are we to give chase sir?” his first mate Mr. Alexander asks, walking up beside him.

“No,” Javert answers. “They carry a lighter load and we might not be able to catch them, and if we did, we risk losing the prisoners, who I intend to make an example of.”

Javert strides down the deck with firm steps, droplets of sea water landing on the leather, Alexander following in his wake. He passes four of the pirates in front of him, all on their knees with an officer behind them, and he doesn’t miss at least three of them avoiding his gaze, a marked fear in their eyes. He stops at the fifth man and Michel stands off to the side, watching.

"You sent your ship away and yet here you are, its captain," Javert says as he approaches Robins.  "Interesting tactic."

"I'd rather my ship gone and most of my men on it without me than all of them falling into your hands," Captain Robins answers, spitting the words. "I'm no fool, I know what awaits me once I’m delivered to Port Royal."

“Captain Robins, unless I’m mistaken?" Javert asks, gesturing Alexander over and taking a piece of paper, reading over it quickly. “Usually you command two ships that sail together, care to tell me what happened to the flagship?”

“Not really,” Robins answers.

“Well you are a foolish man for coming this close to Kingston with but one sloop when you know how heavily patrolled this area is,” Javert says, scanning further down the paper. "Ah yes. A convict turned pirate that’s right. Color me not surprised.”

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Captain Javert."

Javert reaches down, grasping Robins' lapels and hauling him to his feet.

"You will not speak to an officer of his majesty's royal navy in that tone," he says.

"I will speak however I like," Robins answers. "I'm essentially a condemned man, what exactly do I have to lose?"

There’s something in the pirate’s eyes that reminds Javert of Valjean. There’s less of that wretched, confusing understanding he’s seen in Valjean’s eyes, but behind the indignation it’s still there. If he’s correct, this man learned from the same pirate captain Valjean did, and he cannot help but wonder if he’s been a topic of conversation.

 _You’re a pirate_ , he hears himself say, standing on the deck of Admiral Adam’s ship not very long after he’d joined the navy, his sword against Valjean’s.

 _So I am,_ Valjean had said. _Goodbye, Javert. I know you’ll make sure we meet again._

 _You shouldn’t want to be one of them_ Valjean’s voice resounds from even further back in the past when he was twenty-one and feared losing his tenuous new place in East India. Before Michel. Before Rene.

"Every man has something to lose until he is dead," Michel says, stepping up and drawing Javert back into the present, and he lets go of Robin’s shirt, leaving him standing. "You will be silent unless spoken to, and you will speak civilly or we will gag you."

"Michel Enjolras," Robins answers, and Javert looks over at Michel, who remains impassive and unimpressed, save a flicker of annoyance passing over his face.

"You know me, pirate?"

"Everyone knows you," Robins says, and Javert sees something odd in his eyes, something sad, when he looks at Michel. “Word has it among pirates that you are a fair captain to your men, more so than other East India captains. But I’m afraid you lost any pinch of good will when you became such an infamous hunter of pirates.”

“It was my duty to join forces with the Royal Navy to take down those who would interrupt my very own trade routes,” Michel says. “Men like you.”

"Though if rumor has it correct, you're going a bit softer than your friend here,” Robins continues. “There was word going around that you petitioned to have two pirates' sentences commuted from capital punishment."

"They were fourteen," Michel answers. "Boys that young could easily be coerced or conscripted with no escape."

"And was your petition accepted?" Robins asks.

"Their sentences were commuted to hard labor for ten years."

"Oh well," Robins' says, and Javert hears sarcastic anger curl around his words. "That's simply fantastic."

"It is better than being dead," Michel emphasizes.

"And they will emerge angry at the society that treated them this way," Robins says. "And then you will still wonder why pirates exist."

"I can assure you will receive no such sympathy from me," Michel answers. “Your choices were your own.”

"You cannot strike fear into the hearts of the pirates you hunt," Robins answers. "You have no idea who you're dealing with.  Since the war with Spain ended, since the Hanovers took the British throne, more and more pirates have poured in, and they have a purpose."

"We will see about that," Javert says. “Some of the colonial governors are cowards, and some merchants can be bought, but I can assure you that I cannot be intimidated or purchased. And there are enough like-minded officials with the power to ensure your eventual destruction. I’m a patient man.”

“But are you a good man?” Robins says, narrowing his eyes. “I saw a man with the scars from the lash. Another with bruises from a caning. What does that say about you as their captain?”

“It says that I know the value and the necessity of discipline,” Javert says. “It says that I follow orders from my superiors to keep the men in line. If they do not behave then they may be more likely to lose their lives in battle or in an accident, and it is my job to prevent that, as their captain. I am responsible for both doing honor to my post and safeguarding their well-being. Do not pretend as if pirates do not discipline their own.”

“And the man’s crime?” Robins asks. “That received the lashes?”

“Stealing,” Javert says. “He should count himself lucky it was not a harsher punishment.”

“Pirates do discipline their own sometimes,” Robins answered. “But it’s far less necessary. The rare occasions of theft on our ships are done out of greed. The more plentiful instances on yours are done out of desperation. I know what the wages of your average naval sailor are, and I fail to see how causing them such physical injury is caring for their well-being.”

“ _Silence_ ,” Javert says, stepping closer.

“Sailors hide and run from your pressgangs in London and the colonies, merchant men die of disease and poor diet because ship owners cut their rations and their medicines and their captains are often cruel,” Robins continues. “Church authorities in London sell orphaned children into servitude or put them to work in chimneys until they go blind. Men may murder their slaves at will and be charged only a small sum as a punishment. If you’re framing it as an argument over monsters and men, well…” he trails off, letting his implication hang in the air.

Javert slaps Robins across the cheek and the skin goes red. He shoves him back to his knees and gestures at Alexander, who places a gag in Robins’ mouth.

“There are injustices in the world,” Javert says, leaning down close. “It is my job to correct that. It is also my job to collect law-breakers. You are committing an injustice because you are breaking the laws of the land. The study and creation of laws is complex; obeying them is far less so. You do not simply break them, you shatter them. And that is no way to attempt whatever _good_ you’ve fooled yourself into believing you’re doing.”

Robins glares at him, unable to speak with the gag in his mouth.

“Take these scoundrels to the brig,” Javert says, gesturing at Alexander and the other men standing near. “And put a full guard in front of the door in case they get any ideas.”

Javert has a brief chat with his boatswain about the ship damage and sees to setting off back toward Kingston, bidding Alexander to take note of any of the men’s injuries so he can put it in his report. About a half hour later he goes back to the captain’s cabin, where he finds Michel tending to his hand.

“That’s not too bad I hope?” Javert asks, gesturing at it. “Did you see the surgeon?”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Michel answers, wrapping the bandage around. “Just got some wrappings for it from him.”

He puts his hand out wordlessly and Javert ties the bandage off for him. 

“Do you think the _Navigator_ will be repaired soon?” Javert asks, sitting down at his desk.

“She should be ready in about two days,” Michel answers, watching as Javert flips through the papers he has on Robins, pulling his reading spectacles out of the drawer with one hand. “I have a shipment I’m due to take out to the Virgin Islands. that’s in from India soon as well, so I’m hoping no other problems arise. Is Admiral Adams set to handle the pirates’ transport to Port Royal? Or will you have to go as well? I’ve already told him I cannot. My father in law is due to return tomorrow, if the schedule kept.”

“From London,” Javert says. “Has he written to say how the directors’ meeting went?”

“Twice,” Michel says. “There was a great deal of consent to add more officers and to try and prevent further regulation from parliament over East India.”

“You don’t agree?” Javert asks, sensing something in Michel’s tone.

“Well I am not opposed to a bit of government oversight given my experience working with the navy,” Michel answers. “I owe the Company a great deal of course but some of the shareholder and owners perhaps sacrifice efficiency and decent business practice for profit when they already have plenty. Andrew and I…do not always agree. I did at least buy his share of the _Navigator_ from him, given how many shares he has in other ships, but that took a good bit.”

“So it did,” Javert says, recalling. “I won’t be going to Port Royal, either. The _Chase_ needs some repairs as well, and a few other things requiring my attention. Besides, if I’ve seen one pirate trial, I’ve seen them all.”

Michel pauses, then forges ahead.

 “Robins had an odd expression on his face when he looked at me. Why do you suppose that is?”

“Well,” Javert says, finally looking up from the papers. “If these notes are correct, Robins came into piracy through a man named Myriel, who was particularly known for attacking slave ships. The same man, in fact, who Valjean and Fantine learned under.”

Understanding dawns in Michel’s eyes and he sits back in his chair, brows furrowed in thought. “And if he knows Valjean and Fantine, you believe he knows…”

“Rene,” Javert finishes for him. “Yes.”

 “I still do not want to believe it,” Michel says. “I do not think I could, entirely, until I receive proof with which I cannot argue. But I also cannot banish the thought. Yet we have not been able to lay our hands on Valjean’s ships for six months since I agreed to give thought to the idea.”

“Valjean is devious and unfortunately, clever,” Javert says. “But we _will_ find them, I can assure you. Even if they’re separate, I suspect capturing one will draw in the other. Valjean is a rash, sentimental fool. And if I’m right about Rene, well. The crew are apparently rather loyal to one another. Honor among thieves, I suppose. I know they do not care for us going to close to Nassau recently, but that may be the only way to achieve what we wish quickly.”

They’re silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, Michel drumming his fingers atop Javert’s desk, lips pursed, and Javert sees the purple smudges under his eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping.

“Oh!” Michel exclaims suddenly, surprising Javert. “I forgot to mention I wrote to Aldridge Courfeyrac in Port Royal to tell him of our suspicions about the boys. I entreated for his discretion, of course.”

“That useless privateer?” Javert asks.

“Come now, Nicholas,” Michel chides. “The man was a talented sailor, and I did business with him for a long while after we relocated to Kingston. He kept up rather well in Port Royal even after all the natural disasters it seems to attract.”

“You are more generous than me,” Javert says. “He frustrated me from the beginning, perhaps more so than his irritating son. He scarcely assisted us at all once six months had passed after Rene, Frantz, and Auden went missing. That and his ridiculous wardrobe were enough to remove him from my esteem.”

“I do not claim to understand why he would give up so easily on his son,” Michel says, and Javert sees that melancholy smile that always causes him worry. He doesn’t have a great deal of patience for agonizing over things generally, but he fears the vulnerability he senses in Michel, one that might come in touch with everything he senses rests on the horizon. “But I suppose he had his new child to consider, although…” he trails off, thinking, before shaking his head. “But that is not the point. I received an answer from his wife, you see. It turns out Aldridge passed away.”

Javert’s eyes widen. “Really? How?”

“Accident on the ship apparently,” Michel says. “She didn’t give me the details, but apparently the surgeon had to remove part of his arm and it grew infected. He was able to die at home, at least.”

“Well I can’t say I would wish that upon him,” Javert says, remembering how similar Auden looked to his father even if they were very different in temperament. That Auden grated at him to no end was certain, but at least the boy had some sense of loyalty, though now ill-used, and Javert never sensed that in Aldridge. “What of Madam Courfeyrac and the child? The boy must be twelve by now.”

“They’re returning to England to her family, apparently,” Michel says. “Though with a great deal more money than they arrived with, so their being able to live in comfort should be some solace, at least.”

“They are leaving the region without Auden?” Javert asks.

“She believes him lost to the sea,” Michel replies. “Given how long it’s been.”

“She doesn’t know her son very well,” Javert says. “He was a stubborn brat. He wouldn’t give up so easily.”

“Nicholas,” Michel chides again.

“You did not particularly care for him either,” Javert argues.

“He was overly rambunctious,” Michel says. “And could be a bad influence, but he did have his charms.”

If Javert’s honest he thinks Michel places a rosy shade over the past that isn’t there, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“It’s odd,” Michel continues. “We talk so much of Fauchelevent, or well, Valjean.” He stops, his expression indicating that the words taste strange on his tongue. “And yet I know so little of him.”

“There is not a great deal to know,” Javert says, though this, while not a lie, is not completely the truth, either. He has confided to Michel his feelings of failure from Nassau, but he could not confide even to him, not to anyone, the way Valjean’s actions that night made him feel so very uncertain. The kindness in the man’s eyes among the anger. The concern that rested there. Javert had a difficult enough time accepting kindness or affection from the very few people with whom he allowed it; accepting it from someone like Valjean, a convict, a pirate…well that was something he could not do. Valjean’s words from that night ring in his head.

_You are a man sent by his superiors to do a duty, and now you’ve done it. Go._

_Protecting myself matters little, protecting my crew means everything. Until we meet again, Javert._

He was certain Valjean had Rene and Frantz and Auden on his crew and yet he behaved not just as a captain, but as a father for all the determination in his voice. Yet he cannot force any of these words past his lips, cannot impart them to Michel. They are foolish, soft, ridiculous thoughts about a convict, about a pirate, and he will not entertain them.

“He was a convict arrested for breaking into a house and stealing food,” Javert continues. “He kept breaking out, or attempting to, and so had years added on to his sentence, rightfully. Finally they placed him on a ship because he had nowhere to run but the open sea. Then, well. You know what happened. He escaped from me with Fantine and you saw fit to see past it.”

“You know my feelings about the harshness of your other East India supervisor,” Michel answers. “But it was his loss, in the end. I might not have known you otherwise. At least not well, even though our paths would have crossed.”

“Yes,” Javert says, giving a fraction of a smile. Though Michel has been his mentor for a long time now, his friend, sometimes he still doesn’t know how to accept the love the other man bears him, even if he reciprocates the sentiment. He was alone for so long and didn’t mind it because he’s taught himself of the danger of human connection and did fine on his own; but then there was Michel. Then there was Rene and Arthur and Frantz. And they hadn’t truly given him a choice in the matter. “But the fact remains that I am responsible for their escape, and had Valjean and Fantine not become what they have, perhaps I could more easily let it go.”

Michel raises his eyebrows, a smirk playing at his lips.

“I said _more_ easily,” Javert insists. “But they have become these pirates; interrupting trade routes, thieving, causing general havoc and lawlessness. Sometimes killing our own officers. It is an aberration of justice I must correct.”

“I understand,” Michel replies. “I only…you’ve said to me before about Valjean’s fear. And I wonder, given all the times he has so brazenly broken the law, why he would fear us finding out about Rene and Frantz if they are indeed sailing under his colors? That he might be secretive about it makes a certain amount of sense, but fear is something different. It implies he cares about them. It seems as if he is…as if he is trying to protect them from us. From me.”

“Michel,” Javert says, slow. “Do you feel as you they require someone to protect them from you?”

“I…no,” Michel says, and he’s uncharacteristically twisting his fingers. “But I cannot deny that I hurt them. The things I allowed have haunted me for all these twelve years. The way I let my father-in-law behave, especially.”

“They disobeyed you,” Javert says, sounding harsher than he means. “They were not grateful for everything you did for them. Whatever _fault_ they may have found with you did not warrant their reaction.”

Michel smiles tightly. “I suppose thinking of Valjean and who he might be reminds me of Arthur’s complaints about the treatment of convicts on East India ships. They are people, he would say, not just free labor. That there were some hardened criminals is certain, but he did question the circumstances that led them to crime in the first place. Sometimes it sounded almost as if he…admired Valjean.”

Javert feels a wave of nausea slap him; he does not like the sound in Michel’s voice, he does not like the uncertainty of a man who scarcely ever wavered.

“Of course no matter the circumstance there is no justification for his attempts to escape or obviously his subsequent piracy,” Michel says hastily, shaking his head and sitting up straighter in his chair. “That is nigh unforgivable. My greatest concern of course, is what he’s turned Rene and Frantz into, if he has them.”

Javert nods in agreement, and Michel stands up, hands grasping the edge of the chair until his knuckles turn white.

“I believe I need some air,” he says, voice a notch higher than normal. “Care to join me?”

“Certainly,” Javert says.

Michel turns again at the door, hand resting on the knob a moment before they exit.

“You know how grateful I am for your discretion, about Rene and Frantz?” he asks. “I know you are uncomfortable keeping the reasoning for our intensified search for Valjean and his consort captain a secret, even if Admiral Adams certainly wants them caught so he does not know yet that there is anything to be kept from him. I know you only do it out of loyalty to me.”

“I understand the personal nature of the matter better than anyone else,” Javert says. “And it is what I owe you.”

Michel nods, looking sad again, but clasps Javert’s shoulder a moment before they walk back out onto the deck

* * *

**Two weeks later. Port Royal, Jamaica. 1716**

 “Of the many things I haven’t missed about Port Royal,” Courfeyrac says in Combeferre’s ear as they watch Jamaica appear on the horizon. “The stench is certainly on the list.”

“You’d think they’ve have figured out something else to do with the latrines given the Caribbean breezes,” Combeferre agrees. “Alas, no. It floats out on the air even this far out.”

“Our welcome home,” Enjolras says, wry, coming up beside them at the rail. The _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ sail side by side with Sam Bellamy’s _Whydah Gally_ and his sloop _Marianne_ just behind.

Combeferre retains mixed feelings about Port Royal; most of him wished to never see the place again, but a small sliver still holds onto the happy memories it holds, memories of the years living with Arthur, of sailing with Enjolras and both of their fathers. There are fond memories of Javert as well, though more of those belong to Enjolras. But the remaining happy thoughts grow rotten at the core as he recalls the later years, recalls Governor Travers’ terrible behavior, recalls his father’s death, and Michel’s failures. Most vividly, he recalls the slave ship and everything that happened after.

 _Frantz must learn his place_ , Michel said that night as Combeferre’s cheek stung from the governor’s slap, as bruises crept across Enjolras’ face, visible marks of Michel’s cowardice.

He runs his fingers over the pocket watch his father gave him, grasping a little more tightly as Port Royal grows closer, another memory tugging at his mind and falling loose. He remembers one of the times his mother came to visit from Haiti after he’d moved her and before she went missing. They’d walked down the street with his father, receiving disapproving stares from passerby. Arthur took Chantal’s hand in response, lacing their fingers together, putting his arm around Combeferre’s shoulders and pulling him close. Combeferre hadn’t quite understood at the time what an act of open defiance that was, but he won’t ever forget his father’s kind expression turning harsh as he glared back at the offending townspeople, almost daring them to speak against him. His father’s privilege and position was such that scarcely anyone would speak with him directly about it, but there were inevitably countless whispers behind his back.

But now as they return, things couldn’t be more different. He feels Enjolras’ hand cover his own atop the rail, sharing his thoughts.

“All right, Frantz?” he asks.

“Yes,” Combeferre answers, squeezing Enjolras’ fingers. “Just thinking how different this is from our escape that night. What we’ve built since then. What we’ve come here to do.”

“Much less rain,” Courfeyrac teases, though the look in his eyes reads more solemn. “The sun’s on our side today.”

They don’t say Javert or Michel’s names, they don’t talk of Astra or Arthur just now; they are too close to the literal landscape of the past to discuss such things on the cusp of what they hope will be a victory.

“Last I heard my parents were still here,” Courfeyrac continues, voice dipping down. “They hadn’t moved to Kingston like so many sea traders. Well, nothing to worry about, I imagine. They might not care to even recognize me if they saw me pass them in the street.”

He tries smiling but it doesn’t hold, and Enjolras lets go of Combeferre’s hand, walking over to Courfeyrac, stepping in front of him and placing both hands on his shoulders.

“You deserved better than them,” Enjolras says, looking Courfeyrac in the face. “You are one of the most memorable people I’ve ever met.”

Courfeyrac truly smiles now, pulling Enjolras to him in an embrace. He opens up one arm, reaching out and seizing Combeferre’s sleeve, inviting him in. They stand like that for a moment, safe in each other as they’d always been. They break apart, and Combeferre sees that Courfeyrac’s eyes are wet, but bright.

“We’ve got this lads,” he says. “They won’t know what hit them.”

Feuilly approaches, drawing their attention away, and Combeferre thinks their friend looks uneasy.

“The _Misericorde_ sent a signal they we’re going to weigh anchor before we sail in to discuss the strategy a final time,” Feuilly says. “And I think Uncle Jean wants to see the three of you.”

“Is something the matter?” Enjolras asks.

“I’m not entirely certain,” Feuilly says, scratching the back of his head. “But before we left, he told me that he was a bit worried about sending you ashore in Port Royal, so I suspect that might be what he wants to discuss. Just to give you an idea.”

Once they’re stopped and the gangplank down, the three of them and Feuilly walk across, heading toward the captain’s cabin, opening the door and seeing Sam Bellamy, Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette standing around the desk. Combeferre notices that Valjean looks as if he hasn’t slept well, and something about the way the light hits him highlights some of the gray slivers in his hair. Though they avoid taking lives as much as possible, though often they are able to take at least merchant ships without firing a shot these days, the violence still weighs heavy on Valjean’s shoulders, Combeferre knows. It weighs heavily on them all, but Valjean’s core, however much he might argue the point, is gentle. That he can also win a swordfight, that he’s formidable when needed, is also true, but Combeferre wishes the man who has done so much for them could have lived in a kinder time, never ceasing to appreciate the bravery it takes for him to put his own nature aside for this fight.

“You wanted to see us Valjean?” Enjolras asks.

“Yes,” Valjean says, smiling slightly as Feuilly goes over, clasping his shoulder in encouragement, and Combeferre notices how uncanny their facial similarities are, even though Valjean keeps a beard and Feuilly does not. “That the three of you are some of our best, I certainly will not deny. But given we are attempting to rescue our comrades from Port Royal, I wanted to let the three of you know that if need be we can send three others in your place and you can assist with what we’ll be doing from the ships.”

“Do you not want us going?” Enjolras asks, but he doesn’t sound frustrated, only concerned about the expression on Valjean’s face and the worry in his voice.

“I am not going to command you to do anything,” Valjean answers. “But I know the memories Port Royal holds for the three of you, and I won’t keep my worry about you setting foot on the shore away from you.”

“If I might speak for the three of us,” Enjolras says, speaking once he sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac nod in assent. “It is…difficult to be here. But I think all three of us would like to go ashore and add something better to our history with this place again.”

“I didn’t realize the three of you grew up here,” Bellamy says, stepping up and shifting his long dark hair over his shoulder, kept back by a simple black cloth. Of the many pirate crews they fraternize with, Sam Bellamy’s is one of Combeferre’s favorites; he’s just their age and holds the same sorts of ideals they do, using similar tactics, and has long looked up to Valjean as a model. “Or I would have asked before choosing the three of to help me lead the charge on land.”

“It’s all right,” Enjolras says. “We really would like to go. We know the terrain besides, where the fort is, where they set up the gallows, the best routes out.”

“Yes,” Valjean says. “Which is largely why I’m not insisting you stay aboard. I…” he pauses, looking at the three of them again. “Just heed an old man’s worries and tread carefully, all right? I know Javert and Commodore Enjolras are in Kingston, but they were responsible for catching Robins and his men. There will be consequences for this, even if they don’t see your faces today.”

“We’re willing to take the risk,” Combeferre says, giving Valjean a reassuring smile. “Just as you are.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and Combeferre watches Fantine clasp Valjean’s arm. He brightens, looking at the three of them again and stepping forward, hesitantly touching each of their faces.

“I would keep the past from coming for you as long as I could,” Valjean says. “But for now, let us focus on the present. How many men are we sending ashore at final count?”

“Forty,” Bellamy replies. “Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Prouvaire, and myself will lead the charge to the square.”

“Eponine and I have agreed to go and help take down the sentries and stand guard by the docks and longboats and take care of any threats that might prevent the shore party from getting back to the ships,” Fantine adds. “Along with a few of Bellamy’s men and our own. Eponine and I will stand as the last defense, because they’ll likely think us weaker. Foolish, but true.”

Bellamy unrolls a sheaf of parchment, revealing a rough drawing of the Port Royal fort and its surroundings, including the bay.

“Combeferre drew this up for us a few days ago,” Bellamy continues. “So we knew what we were looking at.”

“Executions happened in Port Royal often enough when I was growing up,” Enjolras says. “Pirates or no. I used to go walk by the docks then because there were far less sentries, usually only a handful because all of them were busy in the square. So it will be easy for us to sneak onto the docks and into town. Then when the clock strikes the appointed time, Fantine and Eponine will give the signal.”

“And we’ll fire at the fort,” Valjean finishes for him. “Jahni will stand in charge of the _Liberte_ while Rene is on shore. We’ll also fire at empty naval ships in the bay. Which will split their attention three ways. You’re certain there aren’t any civilians at the fort?”

“They aren’t allowed in the fort,” Combeferre answers. “Aside from during natural disasters, sometimes. We went there during a hurricane once, I recall. Or well. If someone fired on the town. But we won’t do that and the fort will be under attack, so they won’t send townspeople there. They’ll send them away.”

“We’ll head toward the square,” Courfeyrac says, tracing a line from the docks on the drawing. “And interrupt as they’re bringing out Robins’ and his men. That way we don’t have to waste time picking jail locks.”

“And if we reach trouble in the bay?” Valjean asks.

“I think the lack of sentries and dock workers due to the executions will be to our advantage,” Feuilly says. “We’re flying British colors, and I don’t think that will raise any alarm at first. And once they realize, well. Hopefully the shore party will have knocked out any alarm raisers.”

“Precisely,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre feels the anticipation beat in his veins.

They discuss a few more things and then break apart, Cosette coming up to the three of them and tapping the edge of each of their hats fondly.

“Bahorel is having me stand in as co-master gunner while Prouvaire is on shore,” she says, looking pleased, her thick curls braided back so they’re out of her face, looping her arm through Feuilly’s as he comes over.

They hear Valjean sigh behind them, and Cosette turns, scowling at him, but there’s affection in her eyes.

“You and Mama wouldn’t allow me on the shore party,” Cosette says. “And this was the compromise. Besides, I’ve been around canons all my life, and I believe I’ll be safer on the gun deck than I would otherwise, hmmm Papa? I am twenty-four years old now, so it’s been near twenty years I’ve been sailing, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Valjean says, looking concerned but leaning over to kiss her cheek, and she grins, tugging on the end of one of his dreadlocks, and Combeferre thinks she’s perhaps the only person in the world allowed to do that.

Bahorel approaches them once they’re back on the _Liberte_ , the strong sun making the thin gold stripes on his coat stand out even more.

“All right seeing your old home-town again, you three?” he asks. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“I’m not sure Port Royal qualifies as a pleasure,” Courfeyrac chuckles.

“I do smell the stench,” Bahorel says. “Frightful. I’m sure it makes the aristocrats wilt. Anyhow, the guns are all ready, Enjolras. And Bossuet is making notes of any weaknesses in the wood in case those places are hit when I’m assuming the fort or ships in the bay start firing back. I’d resent you snatching Prouvaire from me, but Cosette is standing in so, I won’t complain. Well, I will if there’s even a burn on her and Fantine won’t speak to me for a week. Also, Enjolras Joly asked me to pass on the word that if you could please avoid a cutlass injury like the one from our brush with the French navy a few weeks ago, he would greatly appreciate it.”

“I will certainly try to abide by Joly’s wishes,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre sees the light in his eyes. “Did you finally get Gavroche to stay and help with the guns? He wants to go ashore and I wanted to convince him out of it without giving an order.”

“Ah yes I did,” Bahorel says. “Although I’m sure it’s only because he likes me best.”

“Inevitably,” Enjolras says.

“Well as my mother might say,” Bahorel adds. “Hashem is on our side.”

“We have God’s support?” Combeferre asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s a good thing to know. Given how often we’re told only hell awaits us for our misdeeds.”

“Enough of your sass,” Bahorel says, punching Combeferre lightly in the shoulder. “We have some rescuing to do. Just think of the victory music we can have the musicians play if this goes well.”

The wind stays with them and they reach Port Royal a few minutes early, the shore party piling into the longboats and rowing up toward the beach, to a small hidden cove near the end of the docks that’s less guarded and easier for the sailors guarding the longboats to avoid notice.

“Thank you for your help with this,” Combeferre hears Enjolras say to Bellamy. “I don’t know that we could have accomplished this without you and your men. The heightened numbers and firepower are all the difference.”

“Robins is a good man,” Bellamy answers. “So I’m glad to be of service. Besides, if we don’t help each other, then we’ve lost already. I’m not about to let them make an example of five pirates if I’m in a position to do anything about it. I’d hoped Hornigold would send a ship, but he’s loathe to attack English soil, unfortunately,” he continues, sounding annoyed at his mentor. “If he keeps that up, people are going to start questioning his loyalty to the black.”

Combeferre watches Enjolras’ expression as they reach the beach. It’s soft at first, as the eight-year-old boy he met makes an appearance. It grows melancholy for a moment, his eyes roving over the shore he so loved walking upon at sunrise before something hardens in the blue irises, determined. That this would matter because Robins’ is a fellow pirate and a friend has always been true, but the added layers of it taking place in Port Royal, of the fact that Michel and Javert caught these pirates, adds something else, something propelling him forward with even more drive than usual.

 _Come back safely to me_ , his mother said as she bid him farewell in Nassau.

And he suspects they will. But there’s always a chance, with this life. But Combeferre also knows that since the day they first set eyes on one another, a part of him knew that his and Enjolras’ fates lay together, whatever that entailed. And as they return to the shores of Port Royal, that becomes ever clearer.

“Put your scarves on cover your faces,” Prouvaire says as they reach the beach. “We don’t want them seeing them if we can help it. The three of you especially.”

Combeferre can’t help but smile at Prouvaire as he does so, watching his friend tuck his hair, which he usually keeps in a braid these days, inside his own scarf.

The sentries don’t even see them coming.

There’s only four or so sentries in this area, the rest likely guarding the gallows and the fort as Enjolras predicted, or otherwise further down the docks and out of view. They’re no match for the strength of forty pirates, and all of them are knocked out within a few minutes, unable to ring the bell at the docks and sound the alarm.

“You’ll be all right?” Prouvaire asks Fantine and Eponine, who stay back with ten or so men, five of Bellamy’s and five of theirs.

“Certainly,” Fantine says, squeezing Prouvaire’s hand. “Eponine’s already starting on the fire for the smoke signal. When the clock strikes noon we’ll send up the puff. They may send some men down here but we’ll take them. I suspect they’ll be sending more toward the fort, and you’ll distract the rest.”

Eponine gives them an absentminded wave as they go, focused on stoking the fire in front of her.

“This way,” Enjolras says, gesturing with his arm. “We can go around to the back of the square and behind where they bring the prisoners out, near the gallows. That way we’re closer to Robins and his men and we don’t have to make our way through the crowd.”

“So they aren’t at risk of injury or in the way,” Combeferre says, finishing his thought.

“Exactly,” Enjolras says with a nod.

They largely skirt around the main streets, but as they look down from the side Combeferre sees they’re mostly abandoned, a hush gathered over the town in light of the executions, most of the townspeople either watching or in their houses. Combeferre feels the pall sitting in his veins, a flash of anger sharp in his stomach.

For all of society’s talk of being civilized, for all their trumped up tales of merciless pirate bloodshed, Combeferre thinks, it is not pirates who gather in a square and watch people suffocate to death at the end of a rope. He feels Enjolras grasping his hand as they stop a moment, and Combeferre’s eyes follow his, landing on the skyline, where he can just make out the rooftops of the old Enjolras home. He scarcely has time to consider it before they’re running again, the square coming into view, full of onlookers and naval officers.

“There they are,” Courfeyrac says in a whisper, pointing out as they see guards leading out Robins and his four crewmen; their hands are bound with rope in front of them, hats and coats and jewelry removed, left in nothing but their shirts, trousers and boots. Something about it feels so vulnerable to Combeferre, these men stripped of the things that mark them as pirates, and he runs a hand over the silver ring on his left hand.

“Weapons at the ready,” Bellamy says, hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

“Go up behind the guards and free the men,” Enjolras says. “Give them the extra weapons we’ve brought. “Surround the gallows and take down the men closest to it. I will head for the executioner himself. Use your cutlasses unless you have a specific target, I don’t want the townspeople injured by a stray bullet if we can do anything to prevent it.”

There’s a moment’s thought, a breath, and then, they run.

Combeferre hears the familiar sound of cutlasses coming out of their sheaths, and it takes a moment for anyone to realize what’s happening as they surround the gallows, coming up behind the guards who lead Robins and his men, their cutlasses pointed against their backs.

“Pirates!” someone shouts, and a gasp goes up from the crowd.

“I suggest,” Combeferre says into the ear of the guard he stands behind. “That you let go of that man.”

Before the man can respond, before he can move, the clock in the square strikes noon, resounding twelve times. As the last chime echoes against the sky, smoke comes up from the docks, and moments later, there’s the sound of canons booming from the bay.

Then, all hell breaks loose.

The guards spin, around, engaging them in battle and abandoning Robins’ and his men, so several pirates swoop in and cut their bonds, tossing them the weapons. The executioner stalks toward them, stopped by Enjolras, whose cutlass clangs loudly against his. He hears the shouts of the crowd, hears people running from the square.

“The fort!” one of the naval officers cries. “You men there, make for the fort and ready the canons!”

Combeferre defeats the guard who engaged him, turning at the sound of a surprised voice

“You lot are mad!” Robins exclaims, but delight dances in his eyes. “Utterly mad. But we are so grateful. Is Valjean in the bay?”

“He is,” Combeferre answers. “Our two ships and two of Sam Bellamy’s are firing at the fort and the empty naval ships. Fantine is guarding the longboats. It’s a distraction but we need to get out of here quickly and make sail.”

“Of course,” Robins’ says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I cannot believe you have saved us.”

Combeferre watches Robins’ eyes flit toward the gallows, where Enjolras fights the executioner, his eyes widening as the man manages a shallow swipe at Enjolras’ side. Enjolras retaliates, his feet moving faster and faster until the larger man cannot keep up and he goes tumbling off the edge of the stand, hitting the paving stones.

“There’s that new scar Joly was worried about,” Combeferre mutters. Much to his surprise he sees the executioner get up, but before he can make his way toward Enjolras again Combeferre pulls out his pistol, aiming for the man’s arm and hitting his target, watching the bullet go through and out the other side. The man grabs his arm with a howl of pain, and Enjolras makes quick work of cutting down the nooses from the wood, throwing them out onto the paving stones.

 “Much appreciated,” he says dropping down next to Combeferre and offering Robins a smile. “Glad to see you’re all right.”

“Thanks to all of you,” he says, eyes catching on Courfeyrac, who battles an officer with his dirk. “Courfeyrac is near a master with that knife, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Enjolras says. “Fantine is a proud tutor. But we need to go.”

Combeferre looks out, seeing the crowd dispersed, left with only a few more guards, a great many of them having gone to man the fort. He hears the sounds of the fort’s canons go off.

“Back to the ships!” Enjolras shouts, and on the other side of the square, Bellamy echoes his order.

Enjolras leads them out the way they came around the back, several naval officers following them, but Combeferre notices a few stay back, making their way to the fort rather than face them, and he feels the taste of victory. There’s no time to celebrate just yet, and he unsheathes his cutlass again as a man comes up behind him, metal clashing against metal as the sound of the canons from the fort and their ships boom through the sky.

Then, he feels the ground slip out from under him, the heel of his boot catching on something that must be a large rock, and he goes tumbling down, letting go of his cutlass so he doesn’t accidentally cut himself. He reaches for his pistol, but someone else comes running up as the naval officer tries bringing his sword down, the clang so close and so loud it hurts his ears.

Jean Prouvaire regains his balance, his scarf slipping off his face as he gets the advantage, making the man lose his grip on the sword. He doesn’t stop to look back, seizing Combeferre’s hand and running back down the beach.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says, eyes landing on Fantine, Eponine and the other men they left behind. There’s a smattering of unconscious officers surrounding them, and Eponine helps one of Bellamy’s men, blood pouring from a wound in his leg.

“Of course!” Prouvaire says, smiling even now, exhilaration lighting up his eyes.

They watch Fantine battle one last man, focus in her eyes as she swipes at the material of his coat with her dirk, distracting him and shoving him to the ground through what seems like sheer force of will.

“Let’s go!” she shouts. “Into the boats, quickly. And mind the canon fire.”

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks, dashing up behind Combeferre and Prouvaire as they climb into the longboats, Courfeyrac just behind. “I saw you fall but couldn’t get there.”

“I’m just fine,” Combeferre says, reassuring. “Tripped over a damn rock in the sand. Prouvaire took care of it. How’s your side?”

“Ah, it stings a bit,” Enjolras says, unconcerned. “Bleeding but shallow. Hopefully it won’t add to my collection of scars or Joly might have my head.”

Combeferre looks over as they row, seeing the damage done to several of the naval ships in the bay, a countermeasure to avoid anyone chasing them as they leave. As soon as Feuilly, Valjean, and Bellamy’s men spot them, they throw down the ladders.

“Anchors aweigh!” Feuilly orders as they climb up. “Get ready to make sail, as urgently as possible. Keep firing, because they surely won’t stop firing at us until we’re out of range.”

Once Combeferre climbs up, across the way on the _Misericorde_ he sees Captain Robins launch his arms around Valjean, who stiffens a moment in surprise before returning the embrace wholeheartedly, the other four men they’d saved gathered around them, grinning, and some wiping their eyes in what Combeferre’s sure must be a mix of shock, relief, and joy.

“You did it!” Cosette exclaims, emerging from the gun deck, unharmed, hands streaked with gunpowder. She kisses all of their cheeks and waves with enthusiasm at her mother on the _Misericorde_. Fantine waves back, her curls blowing in the wind, having lost her bandana in the fight.

They set sail quickly, and at Feuilly’s urging Combeferre lets another man take the wheel, feeling exhaustion in his bones. Enjolras and Courfeyrac come up next to him, silent as they survey the scene in front of them. As they’d planned, the town itself was unharmed, but smoke billows up from the fort, naval officers scattered across the top, and the sounds of all the canons die as the ships move out of range. The several ruined naval ships are like dots in the distance as they move further away, the wind with them, pieces of wood floating out into the sea. Several of their own are injured but none dead, so this made for a rather overwhelming victory.

He can’t see it, but Combeferre imagines in his mind’s eye the five nooses Enjolras cut down fallen on the paving stones.

“Well,” Enjolras says, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes, opening his coat to look down at the small wound in his side and Combeferre knows it’s only a matter of minutes until Joly finds them. “I suppose we made an impression.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, placing a loose arm around his shoulders. “I suppose we did.”

* * *

**Later that night. Kingston, Jamaica. 1716**

_The first thing Javert hears are drums._

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Where is that coming from? He can’t see anything for the white fog surrounding him._

_The air sits around him thick, hot, and stifling. Where is he? His eyes search his surroundings through the strange fog, which clears incrementally. Port Royal, it looks like, if the fort is any indication, less well-maintained than the one in Kingston from the slew of natural disasters. He looks down. He stands on a pile of wood; rubble from a ship, ruined and wrecked and broken. He holds something in his hand; the burnt, ripped remnants of a pirate flag, the edges charred and the skull and crossbones cut through the middle._

_He hears noises mixing in the incessant drumming, and they draw his eyes over to the source of the sounds, an odd mix of the clanking of manacles and sharp, desperate, breathless sobs. The fog parts more and he sees the scene before him. Nooses hang from the gallows, a group of people stand before him wearing the manacles, and he feels as if he should know them, as if somehow in the future he will, but their faces are hazy and unclear as if someone has blurred them out. Finally his eyes land on two faces he does know. Another figure with a blurred face sits between them on his knees as Fantine puts an arm around him in comfort. He rocks back and forth, crying, and though Javert sees loose brown curls tied back at the nape of his neck, the face won’t come into focus no matter how much Javert blinks._

_“Auden darling, shhh,” Fantine says to the figure. “I know. I know.”_

_Auden._

_Auden Courfeyrac._

_Valjean stands beside them, and the glare in his eyes pierces Javert’s chest, filled with judgement; he looks more as he had when Javert first knew him as a convict laborer, his hair cropped close as opposed to the long dreadlocks tied back. Valjean keeps Javert’s gaze, moving his hand and pointing toward something. The fog parts again and he sees what Valjean points to, the source of the sobbing he’d heard earlier._

_There in the middle of the paving stones in front of the gallows sits Michel, clutching an empty red coat to this chest, face ashen._

_The red coat of the Avenging Angel._

_A pair of spectacles like Frantz wore rest in Michel’s left hand, a map, a star chart, and a wooden sword resting at his feet, the latter mended as if someone broke it in half._

_The sword he’d thrown into the ocean a year after the boys ran away._

_Tears do not normally move Javert; they are too often used falsely to get out of trouble, but the sounds Michel makes form small cracks in Javert’s heart. He looks around, seeing no bodies, no evidence, only the items on the ground and the ropes hanging from the gallows and Michel clutching the coat and the spectacles. He steps off the pile of wood, still carrying the ruined flag, walking toward Michel._

_“Michel,” he asks. “I…what happened?”_

_“You killed them!” Michel shouts, and Javert jumps at the hate flashing in his eyes. “You sent them here, and my money, my connections, nothing could save them.”_

_“I didn’t,” Javert says, utterly lost, but feeling something heavy in the pit of his stomach._

_How does the law dictate this ends?_

_“They were pirates,” Javert says, the words flowing forth without his permission. His voice sounds cold and without remorse even to his own ears, and it’s as if he’s lost control of his own faculties. He hadn’t meant for it to sound that way._

_“They were my children!” Michel screams, voice ragged and hoarse. Javert sees now that Michel isn’t in his East India uniform, and there’s the infamous “P” brand burned into the skin of his right wrist._

_It was how East India had longed marked pirates._

_“I should never have let them near you!” Michel continues, standing up now and shoving at Javert. “I should never have made you a part of my family, made you my friend or my protegee. It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault!”_

_He drops the spectacles and lets go of the coat, moving to his hands and knees, one hand beating the ground. He looks at Javert once more, grey creeping forth from roots of his hair and slowly overtaking the blond._

_“I gave you my love and my esteem,” Michel says, sounding empty now. “And this is all I got in return.”_

_“I…” Javert tries. “Please, Michel, please listen to me.”_

_“Rene was right about you,” Michel says. “You could never give up your code. Even if it meant forsaking the people you claimed to care for.”_

_“Even if it meant forsaking his own mother.”_

_Javert jumps, turning around and seeing his mother standing behind him, black hair so like his own hanging far past her shoulders._

_He hears whispered words in his ears, words he recognizes though he cannot place them, but they slip into his blood and resound in his head, making him feel as though he’s lost his mind entirely._

_Yo ho, haul together, hoist the colors high._

_Something clicks in his brain. A pirate he’d arrested, he’d heard him humming it when he went down to the brig. He looks up, and the group of pirates with blurred faces march toward him slowly, torturously._

_Heave, ho, thieves and beggars, never shall we die._

_The drums start again, beating so hard Javert’s head throbs_

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

A loud, determined knock at the front door of his small rented house wakes Javert abruptly, and at first he cannot tell if it’s part of the dream or reality. It persists for a few moments, and realizing it’s the door and not the drums in his dream he gets out of bed, throwing the dressing gown on over his nightshirt and stalking in the dark toward the door, wondering who on earth might knock at this hour. He unlatches the door, staring out for a moment and adjusting to the light of the torch outside.

“Admiral Adams sir,” he says, smoothing back his rumpled hair. “What’s happened?”

“The pirates you captured two weeks ago,” Admiral Adams answers without delay. “Captain Robins’ and a few of his crew. Their execution was interrupted this morning by four other pirate vessels, the fort in Port Royal fired upon and all the pirates escaped.”

“Who were the crews?” Javert asks.

“Two of Sam Bellamy’s ships and then Fauchelevent, and Fauchelevent’s consort ship captain, the Avenging Angel or whatever the nonsense they’re calling him is,” the admiral answers. “They did a masterful job, I regret to say. The fort is in tatters, though they didn’t fire on the town at all, which I suppose we should be thanking our stars for.  At least four naval ships are in tatters in the bay. Do you know if Commodore Enjolras has returned?”

“Just last evening,” Javert answers, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing and yet not surprised all at once.

“I hate to disturb him in the middle of the night, but if you would I’d like you to go there now and give him the news,” Admiral Adams says. “We all must make for Port Royal in the morning, without question so we can collect first-hand accounts and set a strategy for our answer. That they would attempt this in broad daylight, in a place known for its unyielding treatment of pirates, well. They’re growing even bolder. This will only grow their power and their influence, when people get word.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, nodding. “I’ll get dressed and go immediately.”

“Good man,” Admiral Adams answers. “My office at eight sharp if you please, and then we will take the coach to Port Royal as soon as possible. Some of our fellow officers will be waiting on us.”

With that the admiral nods and goes off. Javert lingers in his doorway a moment, his dream clutching at the edges of his arms with shadowy hands. He shakes his head; he has no time and no interest in indulging the goings on of his unconscious mind. He thinks unwillingly of his mother, who always enjoyed interpreting dreams, who always told him they meant something, and he pushes off the thought, shutting the door closed. He pulls on his trousers, boots, and shirt, tying his hair back haphazardly, retrieving his keys and locking the door behind him as he sets out toward the Enjolras household.

He can’t quite chase away the drums beating in his head.

* * *

Astra jolts up when she hears a resounding knock on their front door. She sits up, awakening further as she hears footsteps dashing down the stairs; Michel’s she thinks, they’re far too heavy for Mrs. Hudson, who might not even hear the knocking from her room. The front door opens and Michel lets whoever it is inside, shutting it behind him. She pulls on her light blue silk dressing gown and house slippers, pulling her braid over her shoulder and making her way down the stairs, heart racing from the sudden noise.

“Michel?” she asks, reaching the last few stairs. Her husband turns around, revealing Javert standing just beyond the door, looking more disheveled than she’s ever seen him, no surprise given the hour.

“Astra,” Michel says. “It’s all right, you can go back to bed.”

“It is clearly not all right,” Astra says, stepping toward them. “I have known Captain Javert for some years now, and his manners do not generally involve him knocking at the door at odd hours of the night.”

Rene, she thinks. Have they found him? Found Frantz and Auden? She remembers Javert watching her stuff away the newspaper clippings on the Avenging Angel and Fauchelevent and Fantine, the look in his eyes making her think they arrived at the same conclusion about the boys. She knew he would do anything to find them, and she would do anything to keep them hidden even if it meant she never sees her son again. Her heart throbs with pain at the thought, but if they’re brought back here, at best they’d live under house arrest for a very long time. At worst….

She stops her thoughts midway; they aren’t there yet, and she cannot predict the future. She remembers Fantine’s face from the night she hid them, remembers how desperate she was to find her daughter. She remembers reading about Valjean, or as the papers called him, Fauchelevent the Benevolent, a man who stole from the rich to give to the poor, and she thinks she saw a part of that man buried in that angry, desperate soul she met that night. If the boys are sailing with them, they’re safer than they could ever be here.

“The pirates we captured a few weeks ago,” Michel says, giving in. “Their execution was interrupted by some of their fellows and the Port Royal fort fired upon. All of them escaped.”

“Which pirates rescued them?” Astra asks before she thinks, sleep still muddling her mind.

“Fauchelevent and his consort captain,” Michel says, gazing at her, eyes narrowed in thought. “Sam Bellamy’s crew.”

“The Avenging Angel,” Astra says, pushing forward even though she knows she shouldn’t. “That’s the consort captain you speak of. You don’t know his name.”

“You know of him?” Michel asks, and he gives himself away by the way his eyes flit unconsciously back to Javert.

He knows about the clippings, and yet hasn’t asked her about them.

“I read the papers like most people,” Astra says. She rests one hand on her hip, studying him a moment. “Michel. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” Michel says, his voice going up just enough so she hears the lie in his voice.

She raises both her eyebrows at him, eyes goin over to Javert who looks guilty under her glare, a part of the twenty-one-year-old young man emerging from beneath the intimidating naval captain.

“It is not my business sir,” Javert says, finally speaking. “But I do believe Madam Enjolras has realized there is something more to this.”

She’s surprised at the words, though she senses he’s not on her side for any simple reason; he suspects something about her, even if he doesn’t quite know the specifics. She’d say she was certain Javert couldn’t know that she helped the boys run away, but he possessed an uncanny ability with piecing together clues no one else noticed.

“All right,” Michel says, sighing but giving in. “Let us at least go sit down to discuss this. I will pour some coffee. Or tea, if you would prefer.”

“I could go retrieve Mrs. Hudson,” Astra says, turning back toward the stairs.

“No need,” Michel says, waving his hand and leading them toward the dining room table. “I’ll do it myself. Tea, Astra?”

“Coffee is all right,” she answers.

“Nicholas?”

“Coffee suits me just fine,” Javert answers, looking uncomfortable sitting here at their table in such a casual state of dress.

Michel disappears through the doors into the kitchen, leaving Javert and Astra alone.

“My apologies for disturbing you in the middle of the night,” Javert says, looking at her and folding his hands atop the table.

“Duty calls,” Astra says, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, considering him for a moment, making a decision. “I think we have something to discuss, you and I.”

“Pardon, madam?”

“Captain Javert,” she says, irritated. “We have known each other for around twenty years or so now, and yet we have spent at least the last twelve since the boys ran away tiptoeing around each other for propriety’s sake. Pretending we didn’t lose the same thing, that you weren’t present while my family fell apart.”

“Madam I would really rather…”

She holds up a hand, and true to form, he quiets down again.

“A great number of societal rules prevent us from being honest with one another,” she continues. “But I don’t have a great appreciation for those rules. I know you told Michel about the newspapers you saw me with a few months ago. Neither of you are as transparent as you think.”

Javert stares at her, eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second before he grows impassive again.

“But I am not surprised, and I am barely angry,” she says. “You have always done as Michel told you. And loyalty is a fine quality, usually. But mixed with your unflinching ideas, you then let it destroy your relationship with my son.”

“Madam…” Javert tries again.

“I am not finished,” Astra says tone clipped, but still calm. “I believe at his core Michel is a good man. But he has let years of fear scrape away at his instincts, at his morals and become what he is, to the detriment of his relationship with me, with his son, with Frantz. Arthur died before that relationship could truly fray. And yet still there is you by his side.”

“Your husband has done a great deal for me,” Javert answers, gritting his teeth against an annoyance he will not release.

“And you care about him?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Javert says, clearly wishing this would end.

“Well then I wonder what you will do should you ever be forced to choose between your loyalty to him and your near blind obedience to the law and conventions,” she says, pushing a strand of hair that’s fallen loose from her braid behind her ear. “Should he finally decide to start making the correct choices again, the better part of me hopes you would choose the former. But I am not certain which thing drives you most; loyalty, or respect for authority, and what should happen if those things diverge instead of walking the same path.”

“Why is this something you wish to discuss?” Javert asks, some of the anger creeping into his voice, and she thinks he sounds far more defensive than he normally might. “You have always had your secrets and I have not seen fit to dig into them.”

Something’s bothering him. Under normal circumstances he would never dare take that tone with her. She may be a woman, but she is Michel’s wife and her father’s daughter, which was more than enough for her to fall into Javert’s category of deference and respect.

“Certainly you have, if it suited you, like with the newspapers. And two reasons,” Astra answers. “One, I’ve noticed that Michel has been…a bit different lately. I have seen sides of him I haven’t seen since we were much younger. It’s his guilt and his grief that drives it, I’m sure. Two, I think you and I have come to the same conclusion on people we share in common. I feel that you believe, as I do, that Rene, Frantz, and Auden are sailing with this Fauchelevent pirate. Or Valjean, as you might call him. That he’s this Avenging Angel.”

“You know Valjean’s real name?” Javert asks, sounding more neutral again, and she feels the tension of both their secrets vibrating in the room.

“Michel slipped once,” Astra lies, taking care not to fiddle with Imogen’s bracelet on her arm, nerves pricking at her. “And used his real name.”

Javert pauses, staring at her again, then crosses his arms over his chest.

“That was the conclusion we’d come to, yes,” he says, begrudging.

“Yes, I thought so,” she says. She leans forward just so, making sure she meets Javert’s eyes. “I do not know what your plan is. I don’t even know if you are certain and I suspect something about you is in turmoil. There was a time when I felt a very strong affection for you, Captain Javert. Because you were kind to my son. I watched you make each other laugh and watched you teach him how to handle a sword. But then you tossed that away, and I watched you hurt him. So let me be very clear; when the two of you clash, and I feel that is inevitable now, if you harm him, I can promise that you will answer to me for it.”

Javert’s eyes widen for a second before returning to their normal state. His face remains inscrutable, but he holds his hands together so tightly that she sees the blood rush toward his fingers, and they tremble until he realizes himself, placing them once again in his lap.

The doors swing open again, revealing Michel carrying the mentioned coffee and placing cups down in front of each of them. His eyes flit back and forth between them as if he senses the unease, Astra’s final words still fading into the air.

“Everything all right?” he asks, steam rising up from the hot brown liquid as it flows into Astra’s cup.

“Just fine,” Astra replies. “We were catching up.”

Michel nods, pouring coffee into Javert’s cup and then his own, sitting down at the head of the table. They tell her of their suspicions, added to by this news they’ve received about the gallows escape.

“And your plan is to search for him and bring Rene back here with Frantz and Auden?” she asks once Michel finishes his explanation.

“That was the idea,” he says, tilting his head, looking bewildered at the question. “Is that not….don’t you want to see Rene and Frantz again, Astra?”

“Of course I do,” she says, her fingernails pushing into the skin of her palm under the table, preventing all her secrets from pouring out. “But I also know that if you are correct about them, then there are consequences, Michel. Surely I do not have to tell you that. The two of you spend a great deal of your days capturing pirates, and you know how it usually ends or we wouldn’t be sitting here at half past three in the morning talking about an exception.”

“I could secure them a pardon,” Michel says, and Astra notices Javert watching him. “I’m certainly in a position to try. There will be other consequences; house arrest and the like, but I feel I could protect their lives and that’s what matters most.”

“You are playing a dangerous game, Michel,” she says. “You are powerful, that is certain. But the flow of politics is stronger still. I assume you haven’t discussed this with my father?”

“Not yet,” Michel answers. “I wanted to wait until we knew for certain.”

“And Admiral Adams?”

“The same applies to him,” Michel says. “I plan to be very careful, if this turns out to be true. Part of me still hopes it isn’t and this conversation is all for naught. Astra…”

Despite Javert’s presence Michel reaches across the table for her hand, but she pulls back.

“Don’t you want Rene back?” Michel asks, voice wavering, fingers curling into his palm at her rejection. “Don’t you want Frantz back?”

“We cannot have them back as they were Michel,” Astra snaps. “We cannot reinvent the past. I would rather never see them again and ensure their lives were safe than drag them back here and endanger them. You want peace of mind, you want to know. I understand. But you must consider the _cost_ and the _risk_. You must consider that they _don’t want_ to be here.”

“You would rather them be _pirates_?” Javert asks, clearly unable to help himself, shock coursing through his voice.

The years and the pain and the secrets built up over the years push the next, single world out of Astra’s mouth before she thinks, before she considers what it implies for all the things she doesn’t want them knowing.

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, the word solid and firm in her mouth.

Javert starts at the ferocity in her tone, but Michel doesn’t even look surprised.

“I will protect them, Astra,” Michel implores.

“If only you had done that before now,” she says, rising from her chair. “I’m going back to sleep. I’ll see you when you return from Port Royal.”

Michel opens his mouth but she holds up a hand, hearing their whispers break out before she even reaches the top of the stairs, though she cannot make them out. She reaches her bed, pulling a familiar object from behind one of her pillows; one of Rene’s jackets from childhood, something she’d kept for years out of sentiment, never knowing how much it would mean to her later. She lays down, holding it against her chest, running her finger over the cuff, navy blue with red lining the edge.

_Be careful. Promise me you will._

She remembers her own words the night she let them go.

_I promise. I love you._

Rene’s words as he embraced her, always a bit solemn as usual, but still with such _life_ in his eyes.

_And I you. Both of you. And that’s why I know I have to let you go._

Sometimes she she feels the ghost of Rene’s hand as it slid from hers, fingers trailing across her palm, sees Frantz’s final smile. Tears fill her eyes, warm as they slip loose and land on the jacket.

 _It will be all right_ , she hears what she imagines Rene’s voice might sound like now say _. Believe that._

“It will be all right,” she whispers to herself, eyes focusing on the bright star she sees through her window. “It will be all right.”

Her eyes fall closed, clutching the jacket closer as sleep finally captures her.

* * *

**One week later. The Pirate Republic at Nassau, New Providence Island, the Bahamas. 1716**

“ _That’s_ the origin of the mermaid?” Bossuet asks. “A goddess accidentally killed her human love and then threw herself into the sea?”

The nine of them sit in a scattered formation on the beach, mostly sans shirts save Enjolras, who keeps his on but leaves it unbuttoned. Joly sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them as the water rushes up over his feet and pulls back again. It is, he thinks, one of the most peaceful things in the world, though he could do with a bit less of the sun beating down.

“To try and become a fish, yes,” Prouvaire answers, leaning with his back against Bahorel’s side. “But Atargadis was so beautiful that she couldn’t become fully a fish so she became half fish, half human. So a mermaid.”

 “You said that was an old Syrian legend?” Grantaire asks, laying down on the sand with his arms crossed behind his head.

“Yes,” Prouvaire says. “I think it later spurred worship of…”

“Aphrodite,” Grantaire finishes. “I thought so.”

“I’ve only ever heard that mermaids are sirens,” Feuilly adds, looking questioningly at Jehan and fiddling with the end of one of his dreadlocks. “Or well. It was what I’d read in an old book of sea stories when I was teaching myself. And sailors are always talking about sirens.”

“They started out as separate myths,” Prouvaire clarifies. “But then ended up lumped together somehow.”

“Well they’re both hauntingly beautiful women from the waist up and fish from the waist down,” Bahorel says. “Makes sense people would mesh them together. Though woe betide if sirens truly exist and we ran into some. I do love a woman who can sing.”

“Does Fantine sing?” Joly teases.

“Oh quiet,” Bahorel says, smacking Joly’s arm.

“Ah she _does_ ,” Courfeyrac says, piling on.

“Courfeyrac, you should value your own life more than you do,” Bahorel says, reaching over and grinning, but Courfeyrac moves out of the way of his grasp.

“Bahorel stop, I’m comfortable like this,” Prouvaire chides. “You’re going to make me fall in the sand.”

“Yes how tragic,” Bahorel says, reaching over and tussling Prouvaire’s hair, and despite himself the latter laughs, the sound coming out like a hiccup as he tries biting his lip. “You’ve certainly never been in the sand before.”

Joly chuckles, eyes roving over to Enjolras, who watches the group with a particular sort of gentle joy dancing in his eyes, Combeferre’s head resting on his legs, nearly asleep. Then, he spots a streak of red against the edge of Enjolras’ open shirt.

“Enjolras,” Joly says, scooting over toward him and upsetting Bossuet, who had just started leaning on his shoulder, drowsy from the sun. “You’re bleeding.”

Enjolras looks at Joly then back down at his shirt, seeing the blood.

“Oh,” he says, unperturbed but surprised. “So I am. Bandage must have fallen loose without my notice. Sorry, Joly, I really was trying to mind it.”

“I know,” Joly says, fond, and moving Enjolras’ shirt aside to take a look. “If only you’d listened and avoided the injury as suggested, hmm?

“Ah well,” Enjolras says, and Joly hears the smile in his voice. “I’m afraid that executioner in Port Royal was a bit angry that we’d taken his prisoners.”

“So he was,” Joly says, examining the wound. “It’s just a bit of residual bleeding, but here, I’ve got an old bandana in my pocket which will serve until we can get a new bandage on it. It’s a small wound, but it is being pesky.”

Combeferre sits up so Joly can tend to it, a smirk on his face.

“Bleeding on your clothes again, Rene?” he asks, and Enjolras flicks him in the arm.

“I do _not_ always bleed on my clothes,” Enjolras protests.

“You do more than I’d like,” Joly adds. “Suppose it’s helpful that your coat is red.”

Joly wipes at the blood and Enjolras flinches, resolutely avoiding Joly’s gaze- he was frightfully ticklish and not about to admit that fact, but Joly inevitably noticed during the several times he’d tended to his injuries or illness over the past few years. Six years, he considers, since Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac found the three of them in the hold of that merchant ship. When he ran from the navy that night with Bossuet he knew he was on the cusp of something extraordinary, but he couldn’t have known just what. Piracy, a new family, love. And he was willing to go through fire to keep it all safe.

“I don’t believe that will scar…unlike these…” Joly’s gentle fingers ghost along Enjolras’ bare ribs to the still dark pink lines visible on Enjolras’ pale skin. “I’m not sure if you have the most scars on the crew, but you certainly are stacking up a good few around your middle.”  Joly’s eyes drift up to the faint scar above Enjolras’ eyebrow, the one he knew Javert gave him.

 “Easy target for the edge of a cutlass, unfortunately,” Enjolras says. “Though I think Bahorel has more.”

Bahorel tilts his head, holding his hands out in front of him and examining them, saltwater dripping off the edge of his loose black curls, which hang just above his shoulders. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell, my skin is so rough from working on the ship, but I do have a bunch of small ones on my hands, don’t I? There’s a long one on my back too, from that one East India officer with his rapier. Who even uses rapiers at sea?”

“I have this nasty one on my thigh,” Courfeyrac says, rolling up his pants leg and looking at the old wound. “Though it’s fading with time. That was an East India officer too, come to think of it.”

“I’ve got one on the top of my head,” Bossuet adds. “Tiny drop of hot liquid in my father’s blacksmith shop hit my scalp once.”

“Ow,” Feuilly says, grimacing.

“I’m surprised you don’t have more on your hands from working with all the rigging and the sails, the most, Feuilly,” Combeferre says.

“I suppose I pay for it by having the roughest skin of the lot of us, if just by a smidge, though I think Bossuet could give me a run for my money working with all the wood and metal,” Feuilly jokes, an amused twinkle in his eyes. Joly watches as Feuilly unconsciously reaches toward his back as if scratching an itch, knowing that a few scars rested on Feuilly’s skin there as they did on his own; Feuilly’s from his time as a ship slave, and Joly’s from the navy. It was inevitable that they saw each other’s scars; they often tossed their shirts aside on the hottest days while working on the ship.

They all look up at the sound of approaching footsteps, watching Valjean, Fantine, Eponine, Cosette, Marius and Gavroche approaching them.

“And what are the lot of you doing?” Fantine asks, affection in her eyes.

“Comparing scars,” Bahorel answers, winking at her.

“Of course you are,” Fantine says, a laugh on her breath.

“I have one on my wrist!” Cosette exclaims, holding it up. “Accident practicing with the dirk.”

“Then I didn’t sleep for a week,” Fantine says, earning a fond hip bump from her daughter.

“Neither did I,” Valjeam mumbles, but there’s a smile in his eyes.

“You worry too much, Papa,” Cosette informs him.

“I know my dear,” he agrees. “I know.”

“We came to gather up you lot for dinner,” Gavroche says. “So hurry up, I’m hungry.”

“Yes _sir_ ,” Bahorel says, earning a swipe from Gavroche’s hat.

“Do make yourselves decent,” Eponine teases, watching them all pull their shirts back on. “We’re due to meet Chantal and Musichetta at the tavern. Tiena might even be there, and so will Bahorel’s mother and sisters.”

“Oh yes, there’s never been a pirate in the tavern without a shirt on,” Grantaire argues. “How long have you been on Nassau now?”

“Did I ask for your input, Grantaire?” Eponine shoots back, grinning, and Joly sees the difference in her face now as opposed to when they’d met, more lighthearted and expressive.

“I volunteered it,” Grantaire says, and Joly laughs, carrying his boots under his arms rather than putting them back onto damp, sandy feet.

He falls back a smidge from the group, watching them as they make their way toward the tavern. Fantine takes Bahorel’s hand, interlacing their fingers, Cosette on her other side with their arms linked. Prouvaire does the same with Bahorel. Marius runs, catching up to Cosette, taking her hand so the five of them form a line straight across as they walk. Eponine snatches Gavroche’s hat, no small feat given he’s now taller than her, and he chases after her, a squeal of laughter bouncing against the sky. Feuilly and Enjolras walk on either side of Valjean, chattering about something together, and Valjean looks back and forth between them, listening. Courfeyrac walks between Combeferre and Grantaire, throwing an arm around each of them.

“Thinking about something?” Bossuet asks, coming up behind him and whispering in his ear.

“Oh,” Joly says, turning toward him as they walk together. “Just…it’s nice, you know?”

“I do,” Bossuet says, eyes trailing over the group in front of them. “But you look worried.”

“I only don’t want anything trying to keep us apart,” Joly says. “Or anyone.”

“Well if anyone does, or anything, I suspect we’ll find a way to mend it,” Bossuet says, wrapping a loose arm around his waist, a well-practiced gesture of comfort between them. “We just conquered impossible odds and rescued five pirates from the gallows, did we not?”

“So we did,” Joly says. “So we did.”

He looks out as dusk falls on them, streaks of purple and pinkish-red sprayed across the sky, Orion visible but hazy in the distance, not fully appearing yet. If civilization arrives at their doorstep, Joly thinks, they are more than ready to fight back.


	18. Book III (Swirling Up From The Sea): Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert catches the Misericorde alone when he's given leave to sail close to Nassau. The two ships engage, and Javert makes a deal, capturing Valjean. Fantine sails back to Nassau, enlisting the help of the Amis, all of whom are ready to run to Valjean's rescue, no matter the risk. Finally, something inevitable happens. 
> 
> What the sea brings together, can never remain apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as notes on nautical things go, Javert mentions "leading seamen" which was the period British naval term for "corporal" apparently. Or equivalent to. 
> 
> I also did a bit of research on naval flag placement, and theirs oddly rested much lower than I thought, which will matter at a given point in this chapter! 
> 
> In any case, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy! :D

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 2**

**Caribbean Sea near the coast of Nassau. 1716.**

Javert’s surprised to find the _Misericorde_ on its own.  

He’s not surprised at seeing the black flag fly as soon as they spot him several leagues off the coast of Nassau. After Port Royal, after the half-destroyed fort, the damaged ships, and the pirates escaped from their capital sentence, Admiral Adams allowed an exception to the general ban on travelling too close to Nassau. So Javert had sailed around New Providence Island for several days, waiting. Waiting for Valjean and waiting for the man he’s willing bet his life is Rene Enjolras. One or both of them was bound to leave or return, and he would wait as long as possible.

_If one of Fauchelevent’s ships is on its own then at the very least capture the captain, if you can’t destroy the ship and take what’s left of the crew. I suspect if we take either Fauchelevent or his consort, one will come for the other to Kingston_ , Admiral Adams had said.

Javert agreed; not only did it mean that he could get his hands on either Valjean or the man he suspects is Rene, it means capturing one will lead to capturing the other. It’s easier with just one ship, in any case. Michel couldn’t join him due to urgent East India business with a shipment to Tortola, and the a great number of naval officers were busy cleaning up the damage in Port Royal or adding extra guard to major British ports in case of spillover pirate attacks. So for now, he was left to the offensive on his own.

If he can get his hands on Valjean he’s certain Fantine will follow, and she’ll have no choice but to enlist the crew of their consort ship…

“Prepare to board!” he shouts. “Ready the guns! Put your focus on the captain, he’s the one we most need to capture, and I need both he and the woman quartermaster alive, so do not under any circumstances aim to kill either of them. That is crucial.”

“Alive, sir?” Alexander asks, striding up behind him. “If I’m permitted, might I ask why that’s so crucial? Are these not the pirates who helped lead the attack on Port Royal?”

“They are,” Javert clarifies. “But we wish to draw the consort crew, as well as the entirety of this crew to Kingston so they might make capture easier. Admiral Adams believes, as do I, that if they will risk so much to help their fellows escape the gallows, then they will certainly come for one another if any of their crew find themselves behind bars in our custody.”

“So we only truly need do enough damage to convince the captain to hand himself over to save his sailors,” Alexander says, slow as the logic dawns on him. “And the rest will follow. Clever, sir.”

“Thank you,” Javert says with a nod. “But Fauchelevent and his crew are not to be underestimated, so do ready yourself.”

If he manages to capture Valjean, Javert thinks, then he and Michel might be able to express their suspicions about Rene to Admiral Adams, something that grows rapidly more difficult to keep a secret as the evidence piles up. The sooner they can impart evidence, the sooner Michel can take control of the situation as he sees fit.

_The man’s sword was swifter than any I’d ever seen before_ , the executioner they interviewed in Port Royal said, eyes wide with fear. _The way the sun shone on his hair almost made it look like a halo._

Javert had scoffed at that; more things turned to legend, more dramatic tales to which he wouldn’t give credence. He’d been so annoyed that he nearly missed it when the man spoke of rising from the paving stones in attempt to go after the pirate again when another pirate shot him through the arm, his aim excellent for such a chaotic situation. He couldn’t remember the face of the man who shot him, and Frantz might have been barely more than a child when he left, but Javert saw him shoot targets enough times in his boyhood to suspect he inherited his father’s talent with a pistol.

Validation flooded through Javert during the interviews as he pieced together more and more clues in his mind, but he cannot quite chase away the way Michel’s face crumbled when they heard the descriptions, yet a drive still rested in his eyes; he wanted answers. Javert could scarcely blame him. He’d watched the years of silence and uncertainty chip away at Michel, taking away pieces of him that might never return.

And he was certain the man who captained the ship in front of him was largely responsible, but the strong arm of the law, the unflinching hand of justice would see to correcting that, and he would be its vessel.

After a few moments, the _Misericorde’s_ canons go off.

“Fire!” Javert calls out mere seconds later. “But give quarter. Ready the hooks and the gangplank, I want us boarding them before they can board us. Beat them at their own game.”

Javert checks that his cutlass and pistol are secure, straightening his hat and watching the grappling hooks cut into the wood of the _Misericorde_. The gangplank slams down and after it steadies he makes his way across, the gunshots and the canons roaring in his ears. His feet land on the deck, and though he doesn’t see Valjean or Fantine at first glance, a pirate comes at him from the side and Javert unsheathes his cutlass, engaging him. The cannon fire and the pistol shots and the clang of the cutlasses ring in Javert’s ears. They’re a near dead even match; Javert has a bit more firepower and Valjean a few more men, making up for what they lack with their advantages, which locks them in place.The pirate puts up a fight but Javert’s skill is more, and soon the other man falls to the deck, defeated. When Javert turns around, he’s met with another, more familiar face.

Through the growing haze of smoke he sees Fantine, her dirk poised for confrontation, blood dripping from a slash across her arm. He points his cutlass at her in warning, but she keeps her distance and he keeps his, the tension so thick that it grows with the second, creating an invisible cloud of its own and mixing in with the smoke.

“I suggest you not test me, wench,” Javert says, meeting her eyes.

She stares right back at him, and he tilts his head, impressed at her courage despite himself.

“My name is Fantine,” she presses. “ _Fantine_.”

“I’m aware,” Javert says. “I don’t know why you feel the need to repeat it to me.”

“Because you refuse to use it,” she says, taking one step forward, still holding his gaze. “As if to strip away my humanity. But then, you have no qualms about doing that, do you?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Javert sees a young woman who looks remarkably like Fantine climbing down the rigging from the crow’s nest, a similar knife strapped to her belt, long curly hair tied back into a tail beneath her black tri-corner hat.

Fantine’s daughter.

_Slaves are not permitted personal property._

_Sir, this locket holds a piece of my daughter’s hair, a daughter I’ve been separated from. Surely you can understand that? Surely you had a mother yourself?_

“I didn’t come here to have a conversation,” Javert says, and she takes another step forward in answer. “I will not hesitate to strike if you engage me, woman or no. You’ve chosen your path, and there is not mercy anywhere upon it.”

He draws his sword, but just as Fantine raises her dirk, Javert hears a voice calling out his name from behind.

“Captain Javert,” Valjean says, and Javert spins around, immediately noticing more silver strands in Valjean’s hair, littered among the long, tied-back dreadlocks. Like Michel, he thinks, seeing the gray among the blond strands in his mind’s eye, then shakes away the thought; the two men could not be more different from each other. “I believe your quarrel is with me.”

“Oh it lies with both of you,” Javert says, raising his voice so Valjean hears him over the cannons. “But you first, I believe.”

Valjean draws his cutlass, but doesn’t point it outward, his expression grave, looking taller in this light, but still standing a bit shorter than Javert, though broader. There’s a rip in the side of his coat as though an assailant tried and missed at wounding him, but he sees someone else succeeded, his eyes landing on a thin cut across Valjean’s cheek, black gunpowder streaked across his hands.

“I don’t wish to fight you Javert,” Valjean says, meeting his eyes.

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” Javert says, moving closer and pointing his own sword outward in threat. “This is the game you’ve decided to play.”

“I don’t think I would call this a game,” Valjean says, and there’s a flicker of the old anger in his eyes, the anger Javert saw resting there back in the days on the _Orion_.

“I’m certain _I’m_ not playing a game,” Javert continues, and Valjean does raise his sword as Javert steps closer again. “Though the lot of you I might say differently; anyone who believes they can live as a _nation of thieves_ , I believe I’ve heard it called, is playing at something.”

“You have no real idea about who we are Javert, because you don’t want to see,” Valjean says, still superficially calm, but there’s a bite in his tone Javert hasn’t heard before, a desperate gleam in his eyes. Javert feels the shadow of a smirk on his face.

He _knows_ he’s right. Otherwise Valjean wouldn’t be _this_ defensive.

He remembers Michel’s words when they caught Captain Robins.

_That he might be secretive about it makes a certain amount of sense, but fear is something different. It implies he cares about them. It seems as if he is…as if he is trying to protect them from us. From me._

 “Of course I do,” Javert says, placing his sword against Valjean’s now. “You are pirates. I need not think any further on the matter.”

“Your first mistake,” Valjean says. “Though you have made a great many.”

Javert’s eyes narrow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You do not show the mercy I thought you capable of when I first knew you,” Valjean says, and he steps to the side in a semi-circle, their swords still pressed against one another. “When I knew that young man who flinched at the sight of his captain unjustly giving lashes to his fellow sailor.”

“You did not know me then and you certainly do not know me know,” Javert snarls. Unbidden, he remembers striking Rene the night he ran away, remembers how shocked he was at himself, remembers the way his stomach sank before his resolve hardened again, an unspoken apology hanging on his lips.

He looks up at the sound of chain shot ripping through the _Misericorde’s_ mizzen topsail. In answer the pirates fire back, round shot smashing into some of rigging on the foremast of the _Chase_.

“I have a proposal,” Javert says, removing his sword from Valjean’s, but keeping a tight grip. “To end this battle which could severely damage both of our ships.”

 Valjean’s eyes leave Javert’s face at the sound of fast approaching footsteps, and Javert’s eyes follow the trail, landing on the girl he’d seen earlier. Valjean’s eyes widen filled with an even more prominent fear than Javert saw that night on Nassau. The girl takes her mother’s hand, frowning at Javert. She hasn’t seen him before, but it’s clear she knows him.

“Cosette please go to the captain’s cabin,” Valjean says, pained as he says the name, clearly wishing Javert didn’t hear, wishing that there was no trace leading Javert to this girl.

“I think perhaps I’m needed here,” Cosette says, still kind, but her mother wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer and ducking as wood from the cannon fire goes splattering across the deck. “What’s going on?”

“Captain Javert was just going to offer us a proposal I’m certain we won’t take,” Fantine says, looking over at Valjean.

“You’re running out of time,” Javert says, hearing a bullet whiz past him.

“What’s the proposal?” Valjean asks.

“Valjean,” Fantine protests.

“Let’s hear it out,” Valjean replies, gentle with his words, and Fantine falls quiet, though Javert suspects that won’t remain permanent.

“You are without your consort ship or Captain Robins sailing in just in time to assist you,” Javert begins. “I am without Commodore Enjolras,” he says, hanging onto the last words and studying Valjean’s face as he says them. “We could easily cause a great deal of damage to each other ships if we kept going at this rate. Unless…”

“Unless what, Javert?” Valjean says, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

“Unless you come with me,” Javert finishes. “And then I will call a cease fire.”

“No,” Fantine says, swiping one hand through the air, still holding tight to Cosette.

“Papa you can’t,” Cosette says, a fire in her eyes as she looks at Javert, and he feels a fraction of himself soften as he glances at her, even if he couldn’t explain why.

“If I’m correct pirate captains hold ultimate authority in times of battle,” Javert says, turning his gaze back toward Valjean. “So this is Valjean’s decision alone.”

“No,” Fantine repeats, disbelief in her voice at Valjean’s lack of protest. “First, we are not handing him over to you, and second, this could very well be a trick to draw us all out and save too much hardship on your part. You already said your quarrel is with both of us.”

“Perhaps it is,” Valjean finally says his voice low and rife with a sadness Javert didn’t expect. He looks around at the ships, the haze of smoke growing thicker and thicker, blood from injured sailors smeared across the deck. “But I will not see this ship destroyed over me.”

“Valjean, _no_ ,” Fantine insists, stepping forward but still keeping hold of her daughter’s wrist. “You cannot do this, you cannot go with him. This ship is not worth handing yourself over to him and whatever he’s planning.”

“No,” Valjean agrees, and Javert keeps silent, listening to them. “But the lives of the sailors on this ship are.”

“Valjean I’m telling you he’s up to something,” Fantine presses. “You know him.”

“I do,” Valjean says, and there’s some layer of silent communication going on beneath the words, people they’re protecting that aren’t here. “But it makes no difference. If we remain here, only destruction is the outcome. I can’t let that happen.”

“We have gotten out of harder scrapes,” Fantine says. “We just rescued five pirates from the gallows in English territory.”

“With the help of our fellows,” Valjean says. “With the help of our friends.”

“You can’t take him,” Cosette says, keeping hold of her mother’s hand but stepping closer to Javert, and she remains fearless in protection of her adoptive father and Javert watches Valjean tense.

_He helped a child_ , Javert thinks.

_He corrupted a child_ , he corrects.

“I’m afraid I can,” Javert says, sounding gentle to his own ears, and he clears his throat.

“You don’t know him,” Cosette protests, words sharp and jagged as they emerge, surprising Javert. “You don’t understand the good he’s done, the people he’s helped. I do, because I’m one of them. The law you’re so interested in defending? It would have left a little girl a slave dressed in rags, her arms sore from the bruises her captors left.”

Javert stares at her, feeling his heartbeat grow rapid. He remembers Rene’s arm after his grandfather bruised it, the pale skin purpling as Javert tried looking at the injury. He tears his eyes away from the girl’s piercing gaze, focusing back on Valjean.

“I require an answer, Valjean,” Javert says. “Now. Before it ceases to matter.”

Valjean gazes at him a moment, the melancholy in his eyes so deep Javert feels it strike him in the chest.

He safeguarded your life. At his own expense.

_He’s a pirate._

He let you go twice.

_He’s the key to finding Rene. And this will correct your error of so many years ago. They slipped through your fingers, and now look? Pirates. Pirates who have caused havoc all over the region._

Javert shakes his head, watching Valjean close his eyes for a moment and breathe in deep.

“I will go with you, Javert,” he finally says, opening them again, and they’re filled with pre-emptive grief, but resolute. “If you call the cease fire now.”

“No,” Fantine says, and Javert hears something crack in her voice. She steps toward Javert again, but Valjean puts a hand up.

The cannons explode again, and it grows harder and harder to see more than a few feet away.

“You think I’ll settle because you made a hand gesture at me, Valjean?” Fantine says. “That I’ll let you just walk away? I won’t. What do I tell Jahni? How do you think he’d feel? What do I tell…” she stops short, the words crashing to a halt in her mouth.

Javert glances at her and she looks back, eyes flitting away too quickly.

“You tell them that it was necessary to save the ship and the crew or risk leaving us all out here at the mercy of ships passing by,” Valjean says.

Fantine opens her mouth and closes it again, blinking back tears she won’t show in front of Javert.

“Papa _please_ ,” Cosette pleads, walking up and taking Valjean’s hands. Valjean stiffens, steeling himself against his own emotions. “You...you’ve won so many times before. We can’t…”

“Sometimes you have to know when sacrifice is necessary,” Valjean says, allowing himself to squeeze Cosette’s hands, looking at her as though memorizing every inch of her face. She smiles at him, her expression sad but laced with stubbornness.

“Enough of this,” Javert says, finding he cannot look at the girl. “If we’re going, Valjean, we need to go. Tell your men to stand down.”

Valjean nods, and both men call out orders to their crews, though it takes a few moments for word to pass along, and even when the quiet falls, the smoke still hangs in the air.

“Walk,” Javert commands, but Valjean resists for a moment, taking Fantine’s wrist and pulling her close, whispering something Javert cannot hear into her ear, though he does hear her soft intake of breath. When Valjean looks away, something in her expression grows solid, and he senses that she has every intention of following them once she gets the chance.

The last thing Javert _sees_ before he grasps the back of Valjean’s coat and leads him away is Fantine wrapping an arm around her daughter’s waist, holding her back from running after her adoptive father, cheek pressed against Cosette’s hair. As they walk across the deck, Javert sees something laying on the wood, black fabric with a skull and crossbones. It must have fallen in the battle, the edges ripped off and leaving only the center. He remembers the dream he had, holding the singed flag.

_Don’t pick it up_ , something in his mind whispers.

But he does, placing it in his pocket.

The last thing Javert _hears_ as he crosses the gangplank with Valjean isn’t Fantine calling out orders in a voice that barely holds, sewing it together with sheer will, a captain to her crew in Valjean’s absence.

No, the last thing he hears is Cosette, her voice ringing in his ears, the agony in her shout thudding against Javert’s chest.

_Papa!_

It mixes in his mind with a memory of stumbling upon the governor striking Rene until the boy fell to the ground _,_ Rene shouting _stop_ just as the back of his grandfather’s hand made contact with his cheek.

For some reason, the sound lingers long after they’ve sailed away.

* * *

**Nassau. A few hours later.**

The moment Feuilly sees the _Misericorde_ in the bay he knows something’s wrong.

Cosette’s tear-streaked face and Fantine’s hardened, determined expression as they step on shore only confirm his fears. The ship’s damaged too; there’s a rip in one of the mizzenmast sails, and dents near the stern, one spot where a cannon ball went straight through, though luckily it’s far above the water line. Most of the crew doesn’t disembark, instead remaining on board and tending to the damage.

He doesn’t see his uncle.

_Get that ship fixed my boy_ , Valjean said as he bid Feuilly farewell. _I'll see you soon_.

“What happened?” Feuilly asks before they say anything, his heart hammering so hard against his chest that it hurts.

Fantine hesitates, putting her hands out for Feuilly to take. He does, and despite the heat, her hands feel cold.

"What happened?" he repeats.

“Javert he...he came upon us,” Fantine says, her voice thick with emotion. "He must have been given permission to circle Nassau after what happened in Port Royal and he...he took Valjean."

Feuilly stares at the ground for a moment, vaguely aware of Fantine's hands still in his, feeling as if his brain won't quite connect the words he hears with reality.

"I...what?" he hears himself ask, his own voice sounding muffled because of the ringing in his ears.

"Javert offered a deal and Valjean accepted," Fantine explains, holding Feuilly's hands tighter and drawing him back into the moment.

Feuilly's breath hitches, his chest feeling hollow, a vague nausea rising up as the words settle in. He plants his feet more firmly in the sand as if this will change the fact that he feels as if a piece of his world has just fallen out from under him.

His uncle.

Javert.

A deal.

Fantine's quiet, allowing him a moment so he can gather his words.

“But you’re all still here?” Feuilly asks, confused. “I don’t….”

“He…” Fantine hesitates, clearly wishing she could spare him this news. “He turned himself over when Javert offered that as a way to keep both of our ships from being even more damaged, from more lives being lost. I couldn’t stop him. I tried, Jahni. I promise you that."

“I know you did,” Feuilly says, squeezing Fantine’s hands and pulling them up to his chest before letting them go. “You wouldn’t give him up without a fight. And I…I’m certain there’s still a fight to be had.”

Something trembles in Feuilly’s voice as he speaks the last words, and Fantine looks at him, tears brimming in her own eyes when she sees them in his. She reaches out, embracing him. He knows they need to move, they need to plan, but he allows himself a moment in the arms of this woman who became a mix of older sister and mother to him, standing in for the sisters and the mother he lost.

“You are a brave, kind young man,” Fantine whispers in his ear. “You are so like him. I know he…I know Valjean struggles with himself sometimes, and he tries so hard to protect us, all of us, that he stubbornly forgets his own presence is worth so much. But he loves you, and we will correct this. I swear it. Javert’s a fool if he thinks otherwise.”

Feuilly nods into her shoulder before stepping back, wiping his eyes and turning toward Cosette. She says nothing, and Feuilly puts his arms out, offering a shelter. She accepts, sliding her arms around his waist, face buried in his shirt. They have a great deal in common, and Valjean and Fantine have always rested at the center, rescuing them from slavery, creating the building blocks of a family. He holds Cosette tighter, thinking how odd it seems that Valjean isn't standing at Fantine's shoulder.

He feels the ghost of his uncle's hand on his shoulder, hot anger pinching at his skin as he thinks of Javert's satisfied smirk.

_How could you just hand yourself over_? Feuilly thinks, hating that some part of him is angry at Valjean too.

 “He wasn’t wrong, exactly,” Fantine says, looking back at the ship. “We might have been stuck if the battle had gone on, but Javert’s up to something. I think he wants us to follow him to Kingston so he can…”

“Force you to enlist your consort crew,” Feuilly finishes, more dread seeping into his veins, arms still full of Cosette. He will _not_ let Javert have his uncle. He will _not_ let him have Enjolras, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac.  “So he can not only have you and Uncle Jean, but so he can figure out if he’s right about…”

“Rene, Frantz, and Auden,” Cosette adds on, pulling back now, wiping her eyes and Fantine reaches over, brushing some of the hair out of Cosette’s face. “He wants to take them back to Kingston to Rene’s father, I’m sure.”

“They’re going to want in on whatever your plan is,” Feuilly says, looking back at Fantine. “I assume there is one?”

“You know me well,” Fantine replies. “The last thing he told me was not to come after him, told me that I was his most trusted friend but that it wasn’t worth it. He’s wrong of course, and I intend to give him an entire earful about it, but first we need him back. If we can make the repairs quickly I think we can catch up. We’re a bit faster, and Javert will have to stop for repairs too. I’d like to catch him out on the open ocean, before he reaches Kingston, and sully his plan. At least partially.” She pauses, biting her lip in thought. “I am not sure what to do about Rene, Frantz, and Auden. I strongly hesitate to leave them behind, but for obvious reasons hesitate to bring them with us.”

“Unless you command them to stay as acting captain of the flagship they’ll come,” Cosette says, resting one hand on her hip and looking thoughtful. “I couldn’t blame them.”

“She’s right,” Feuilly agrees. “I suppose they could call a vote on it, though out of respect for you and not wasting time they likely wouldn’t.”

“They might sneak onto the ship,” Fantine points out.

“They might,” Feuilly says. “But I think they wouldn’t want to compromise the mission to get Valjean back by causing a distraction or a surprise. But they’re going to want to come. And it goes without saying they’re three of our best.”

“They deserve to come,” Fantine says, almost to herself. “They aren’t…” she pauses, a ghost of a smile on her face as she looks at Feuilly and Cosette. “None of you are children, anymore, loathe as I am to admit it. Valjean always felt Javert discovering them was inevitable, but perhaps…perhaps if that happens here, at least it will be on our terms, and with an advantage in two ships against one.”

“Papa will be upset if they’re discovered,” Cosette says, taking her mother’s hand, drawing Fantine’s gaze. “But I…I feel they should be allowed to come. They love Papa like we do, and they’ll fight hard for him.”

Fantine nods, and silence falls among the three of them for a moment. Feuilly doesn’t like the idea of telling Enjolras this news, two-pronged as it is for him, with both Valjean’s life in danger and Javert bringing his past back like a bad storm.

“He just…handed himself over?” Feuilly asks, voice a whisper, running his fingertips ups and down his palms, feeling a chill go down his back at the thought of how Javert might treat his uncle. He remembers the day Valjean found him and they each realized who the other was; he’d never felt such a blast of emotion in his life, made whole and new all at once.

“I begged him not to,” Fantine says.. “Cosette did too. He thought he was doing the right thing, and maybe he did. But he…”

“Has never thought he deserved all of us,” Feuilly says, reaching out and clasping Fantine’s shoulder a moment, knowing how horrible it must have been to bear witness to that scene. “I know.”

“We’ll get him back,” Cosette says, hope threaded through her words. She squeezes Feuilly’s hand, then focuses on Fantine, who finally lets some of the tears break from her eyes, a hand covering her mouth as one sob emerges. She closes her eyes then opens them again, placing one hand on the side of her daughter’s face.

“You are a light to us all my darling,” she says, and something about Cosette’s smile makes Feuilly ache all over. In a situation like this, Valjean would be a source of comfort, an anchor, and now, he’s the one who needs help. Feuilly swears from now on he’ll remind his uncle every day what a worthy, honorable man he is, no matter Valjean’s protests to the contrary. His uncle believed in every inch of their cause, believed in them. But sometimes he didn’t believe in his own worth, for reasons Feuilly is never entirely sure of.

“We need to go tell the others,” Fantine says. “So we can get to work repairing the _Misericorde_ as quickly as possible and getting the _Liberte_ ready to sail. Are all the repairs done that you needed?” she asks Feuilly.

“All finished this morning, actually,” Feuilly replies as they start the walk to the house. “Timely.”

Fantine nods, putting at arm through Feuilly’s, pulling him closer.

“It’s as Cosette said,” she whispers. “We’ll get him back.”

“I know,” Feuilly says, a lump in his throat.

_But what will they lose in return?_ he thinks _._ Something tells him their secret cannot possibly hold.

When they open the door they see only Enjolras in the sitting room, and he’s taken the rare opportunity to stretch out across the sofa, a book in his hands. He sits up at the sight of them, furrowing his eyebrows.

“Fantine, what…you’ve only been gone less than a day.” His eyebrows furrow further, and alarm bursts in his eyes. His voice remains outwardly calm, but Feuilly hears the edge of anxiety. “Where’s Valjean?”

Feuilly watches Fantine hesitate, knowing full well of Enjolras’ old worry that their being on this crew only painted a brighter target on Valjean’s back.

“Javert took him,” Fantine says, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the couch. In an uncharacteristic lack of grace, Enjolras closes his book and it slips from his hands and falls to the floor with a loud thud. For a moment, he looks again like the 16-year-old boy Feuilly met, stepping forward with a fearlessness into the future, but with a past that left its marks all over. A past that chased him, though he burned bright even still.

“How is it that you were able to get back to Nassau?” Enjolras asks, shaking his head and refocusing.

“Javert offered to call a cease fire if Valjean handed himself over,” Fantine explains. “And we were a dead match, things were getting nasty. I tried to stop him, but…you know Valjean.”

“Javert knows we’ll chase him,” Enjolras murmurs, thinking aloud. “He wants us to follow him to Kingston.” He looks over at Fantine in question.

“That was my thought,” Fantine says, putting a very loose hand over Enjolras’. “But if we make the repairs quickly enough I think we could catch him in the open ocean. He’ll have to stop for repairs as well, and we could take the normally charted route to Kingston and come upon him with both ships.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says in that same tone as before. “He wants to lure you to Kingston so he can have both Valjean and you….and…” he trails off a moment, looking away from Fantine and out in front of him. “He wants to see if his suspicions about Frantz, Auden, and myself are true. He wants to trap me there.”

“I believe so, yes,” Fantine says, and Enjolras absentmindedly squeezes her hand.

“I’m so sorry you and Cosette had to watch Javert take him away,” Enjolras says, meeting Fantine’s eyes now. “I know how hard that must have been. And Feuilly…”

“You love him too, Enjolras,” Feuilly says, sitting down on the arm of the sofa next to his friend as Cosette sits next to her mother. “We all do.”

Feuilly wants to promise Enjolras that he won’t encounter Javert, he wants to promise him that he won’t get his hands on him or Combeferre or Courfeyrac. But he can’t promise any of those things, he can only promise that if the worst happens they’ll fight like hell for them.

There’s a pause as Enjolras considers all the information, eyes trailing over his hand in Fantine’s. Something grows solid in his expression, and his voice emerges, sounding more like himself.

“Are you going to ask that Frantz and Auden and I stay here?” he asks Fantine. “I would understand why you would, taking us with you would play into his hands. But that’s worth it to me if it means we help get Valjean back. His safety is worth the risk to me, and far more important than keeping myself hidden from Javert and my father. Especially when Javert, at least, already suspects. I won’t stand back in fear of him.”

“I know,” Fantine says. “And I agree. And it would only be fully playing into his hands if we didn’t catch him before he reaches Kingston. But even then I believe the three of you should come with us. If we catch him out in the open ocean and he sees you at least we will have the advantage and it will be a situation we control. But we’ll need to put every effort into hiding your faces, and keep to a strategy where we can, even though I understand things happen in these situations that we can’t control. I know Valjean always thought Javert discovering you were with us was inevitable and was never sure if I agreed, until the past few years. But now…” Fantine pauses, her voice catching, and Feuilly puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it in encouragement. “I know Valjean wanted to prevent him from discovering you as long as possible. But I wonder if there’s not a danger in avoiding facing this problem head on. But if you want to stay, of course, that’s something I’d understand.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras says, gentle but firm. “And nor would Frantz and Auden, I’m certain. No matter the consequence if he discovers us, it would be worth it to help a man who has done so much for all of us. We are family, after all.”

At this, Cosette rises from her place on the sofa, launching her arms around Enjolras. Surprised, it takes Enjolras a moment to respond, but then he slides his arms lightly around Cosette’s waist, a small smile on his lips. Feuilly knows he doesn’t let just anyone embrace him like that, but their crew, their family, has always been an exception.

“I knew I wanted you to stay with us all those years ago,” she says, pulling back and resting her hands on Enjolras’ shoulders.

“So you did,” Fantine says, tapping the edge of Cosette’s hat fondly. “We need to gather the others,” she continues, straightening her bandana. “If we can make the repairs to the _Misericorde_ fast enough, I want us on his trail in three hours.”

Feuilly sees the fire racing through Fantine’s eyes, and despite the pit in his stomach every time he thinks of his uncle, he feels a grin tugging at his lips.

_Javert_ , he thinks, _you have no idea what’s coming for you._

* * *

**Caribbean Sea aboard the _HMS Chase_.**

He’s been on the ship for at least a day, Valjean suspects, though it’s so dark down here it’s difficult to tell. Fantine’s surely returned to Nassau by now, and a sharp pain stabs him as he thinks of her face as Javert led him away, of Cosette’s final shout of _Papa_. He can scarcely bear imagining Jahni’s face at hearing the news, can scarcely entertain the thoughts of how he’s inadvertently abandoned him again. It mixes with image of Jahni as a baby, grasping his thumb just before he’d gone out the night of his arrest, and no matter how he shuts his eyes against the image, it remains.

_You had no choice_ , he tells himself. _You had to save them._

_And what will Rene, Frantz, and Auden do when they find out you’ve been taken, and by Javert of all people?_

_They will obey Fantine_ , he thinks. _They will_.

_But will she obey you?_

Valjean senses a fight the moment he sees two guards approaching, keys in hand. If they’re officers at all, he thinks, they’re low ranking, their uniforms much less well-kept than Javert’s, his first mate’s, or any of the other higher officers Valjean saw surrounding him earlier.

“We are not nearly to Kingston yet,” Valjean points out before they speak. “And you didn’t see fit to remove me when you stopped for repairs. Why now?”

“Captain Javert wishes a word with you,” one of them answers, a smirk on his face.

“But first you’d like a word with me in the form of a punch, I imagine?” Valjean asks, standing but remaining still as they unlock the door to the brig.

“Smart for a pirate,” the second guard remarks.

“My being a thief does not mean I am not also intelligent,” Valjean replies. “In fact it helps.”

The guard answers with a swing and Valjean steps aside, avoiding the blow as best he can, but this lands him against the side of the cell, the metal banging into his back. The other guard doesn’t miss, his ring with the naval insignia swiping across Valjean’s eyebrow, and he feels blood drip down, a dull pain thudding in his temple.  

“What’s taking so long down there!” another man calls down. “Come on.”

The guard who missed grabs Valjean by the arm, though walking takes some doing with his ankles manacled, not to mention his hands. The guard knocks on the door to the captain’s cabin, and Javert looks up, frowning when he sees the wound over Valjean’s eyebrow.

“And how did this happen?” Javert asks, indicating the wound, and Valjean watches the two guards wince, stumbling over their replies until Javert holds up a hand, stopping them in their tracks. “Spare me your excuses, if you would. I did not instruct you to strike this man, and you will report back to me when I am done here to discuss what exactly you were thinking in your disobedience.”

“Yes sir,” they both mumble.

“What was that?” Javert says, a harsh reprimand in his tone.

“Yes sir,” they say, clearer the second time.

“Put him in the chair and close the door,” Javert says, pointing to the chair across from the desk. “Leave the manacles on.”

After a moment they’re alone, and once Valjean hears the footsteps fade away, he speaks.

“Lecturing your men for roughing up a pirate,” Valjean says. “Not what I would have expected.”

“They are to do as I say and nothing more or less,” Javert says, eyes lingering on Valjean’s wound as if he recognizes the mark.

The scar above Enjolras’ eyebrow, Valjean thinks. Javert gave that to him.

“I could have started the fight,” Valjean points out.

“You didn’t,” Javert says, annoyed. He pulls handkerchief out of his drawer, handing it over. “Wipe yourself off. I’m not interested in you bleeding on my desk.”

Valjean accepts, doing the best he can with his hands manacled in front of him. When he’s finished he looks back up at Javert, who studies him, gray eyes intent.

“How do you know I didn’t start it?” Valjean asks.

“Because I know you,” Javert insists. “And I also know those sailors. Leading seamen both, and likely never to rise any higher than that. They flout my orders routinely and they’re lazy, which is no surprise, given their backgrounds.”

Valjean raises his eyebrows, remaining silent.

“You know nothing of my background,” Javert says. “So don’t pretend as if you do.”

“I’m certain I know more of yours than you do of mine in any kind of significant way,” Vajlean counters.

“What does that mean?” Javert asks, and Valjean hears a snarl in his voice. “You were a criminal, a thief who tried to run away from his sentence until you finally succeeded and somehow you became an even more destructive criminal.”

There’s something off in his tone, something like a question lingering within, but one he isn’t ready to own or listen to.

“Do you know what it’s like, Javert? To be starving?” Valjean asks, still calm, even as he feels the memories bubble up hot in his chest, as he thinks of Jahni’s face when Fantine tells him the news. “To have little ones asking you for food and you can do nothing to stop their crying other than steal? When you live on an island that changes hands between countries and replaces your source of work with slavery because they’d rather have unpaid labor? That was where this all began.”

“I went hungry plenty as a child!” Javert says, raising his voice. He looks surprised at himself as if he has not said those words aloud in years to anyone, eyes widening before narrowing again.  “And if my parents had been better people they wouldn’t have kept a life like that. But I got myself out. I found work as a cabin boy and made my way honorably. I didn’t break the law.”

“And then you met Michel Enjolras,” Valjean adds. “By your own admission to me you’ve known him a long while, and he is one of the most influential men in the region. That is not nothing, Javert.”

“He was willing to forgive my previous error of letting you and Fantine escape,” Javert says through gritted teeth. “His patronage was inevitably helpful to me, but I would not have received it if he did not deem me worthy of it. You dare imply that I did not earn my keep?”

“No, Javert,” Valjean says. “You are a credit to your profession. You have a work ethic, you are a fine sailor. You are intelligent and dedicated. But you are not the only one. You are an exception to a terrible rule, and had Commodore Enjolras chosen to ignore you, you might have remained a petty officer in East India forever, despite your skills and your dedication. Society dictates that people are to stay in their places and if that leaves them to poverty or slavery and other things from which they cannot escape then so be it. You ask people not to steal, then provide no food? You ask people to accept being another man’s property? That is not a society I am willing to accept, I’m afraid. And you follow the letter, no matter the story, no matter the case.”

“Why do you speak this way?” Javert asks, frustration in his tone. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what, Javert?”

“You should _despise_ me,” Javert says with emphasis.  

“You are doing your duty,” Valjean says. “You are doing what you think is right, aren’t you? I don’t agree with it and I stand opposed at every juncture. But I do not believe you an evil man, Javert. Just misguided. Tragically taught to hate the place from whence you came. Because of that, you’ve chosen to do things that hurt other people, even if you think what you’re doing is just.” Valjean thinks inevitably of Tiena, but he doesn’t say her name, knowing it will only make this situation worse.

“Don’t condescend to me!” Javert shouts, slamming his hand on the desk. “Why did you spare my life? It did nothing for you. If you’d taken my life you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. You would have been a king among thieves, taking down the pirate hunter.” He pauses breathing hard, agitated. “It only makes sense if…”

“If what Javert?”

“If you have Rene Enjolras on your crew as I have long suspected,” Javert finishes. “The Avenging Angel, the papers call him. I know it’s him.”

Valjean holds his gaze so he doesn’t look suspicious, keeping his manacled hands in his lap.

_He knows_ , a voice in his head whispers.

_Not if I can keep it from him_.

“I’ve told you before I don’t know the lad,” Valjean says. “The so-called Avenging Angel is the captain of my consort ship. But he’s not Rene Enjolras.”

“Yes he _is_ ,” Javert insists. “Otherwise it doesn’t make sense that you would save my life.”

“Why would that matter?” Valjean asks.

“Because he wouldn’t want me dead,” Javert says, a soft quality to his voice that Valjean hears but Javert doesn’t recognize. “And you know him, so you know that. He…”

The voices of men on the deck cut off Javert mid-sentence.

“Two ships!” one calls out, voice floating in under the door the captain’s cabin.

A half-second later there’s an urgent knocking at the door and the first mate opens it without Javert’s word.

“Sir,” he says, looking paler than before. “There are two ships approaching.”

“Colors?” Javert asks.

“Pirates,” the first mate clarifies.

“Call all hands on deck,” Javert says. “Ready the guns but do not fire until you hear my explicit command, I need this ship back to Kingston in reasonable shape and we’ve already sustained damage. I’m certain they’ll come in on both sides, so station men on all ends.”

Alexander nods, dashing out again and Valjean feels his stomach sink.

They’ve come for him as he feared Fantine would.

_They love you_ , that same voice from before whispers. _They want to save you_. _How could ask them to leave you behind?_

_They are in danger_ , he shoots back. _It’s not worth it._

“What did you do?” Javert asks, standing now and pulling Valjean up from his chair, looking half enraged at the idea they’ve caught up to him in the open ocean and half victorious that at least part of his plan worked; he’s drawn out the _Liberte_.

“I told Fantine not to come after me,” Valjean protests. “I did not want them in that sort of danger.”

“You didn’t want me knowing who your consort captain is,” Javert says, seizing the chain of the manacles and leading his forward. “Well let’s go see, shall we?”

Valjean says nothing.

* * *

**The _Misericorde_.**

“They see our flag,” Bahorel says, lowering the spyglass, and Fantine feels the anticipation race through her veins. “Running like rats across the deck, too. We’ve surprised them.”

“You should be aboard the _Liberte_ ,” Fantine chides, but the fondness in her voice gives her away.

“Prouvaire is more than capable,” Bahorel argues. “And Gavroche weaseled his way into standing as assistant. Besides, I doubt they’ll want to do battle with two of us approaching. They have firepower, but so do we, and coming in on either side gives us the clear advantage. More sailors, too. And I think you needed me here.”

“Needed?” Fantine asks, though she reaches for his hand that sits on the rail.

“Desired my presence,” Bahorel corrects, lifting up their intertwined hands and examining them.

Fantine smiles tightly at him then looks away, eyes landing on the _Chase_ in front of them. Soon, they’ll catch up.

“If there’s anything I know,” Bahorel says, careful with his words. He knows her old scars from Tholomyes, and he’s never been anything but understanding of them. Understanding of her hesitance to trust him in this particular way. Understanding now, of just how much Valjean means to her, to all of them, and the risk they must endure to rescue him. “It’s that we will get Valjean back. You are determined and you are a master at what you do. Besides, Valjean’s a stubborn one, so I suspect he’s all right. He’d better be, or he’ll have to answer to me. And more importantly to you.”

Fantine squeezes his hand in thanks, then turns, trying a grin.

“Resorting to flattery are we?” she asks.

“Only to the truth,” he says, returning the grin. “And if I’m being honest I’m rather looking forward to seeing you get the best of Javert. He should know better than to underestimate you. Hand his ass to him, I say.”

At this Fantine laughs, a strange sound in the seriousness of the moment, but Bahorel grins wider, pleased with himself.

“And Rene, Frantz, and Auden?” she asks, eyes flitting over to the _Liberte_ on their other side.

“I think you made the right choice, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bahorel replies. “None of us want them discovered, but I think running anymore from the problem is unreasonable. It was going to happen, and if today’s the day, well. I think the three of them are as ready as they’re ever going to be to see Javert again. And if he and Enjolras ever cross swords, I’d put my bets on the latter.” Bahorel pauses, and Fantine watches something flash in his eyes, overcoming the usual glee for a moment. “Besides. If he ever got his hands on them, capable as they are of protecting themselves, he would have to go through me.”

“I have no doubt,” Fantine says, leaning over and kissing his cheek briefly. “Come on, we need to make final preparations.”

In about three-quarters of an hour or so they’re nearly upon the _Chase_ , and Fantine stands at the bow near the rail, seeing the replacement flag whipping in the wind out of the corner of her eye. She looks over at the _Liberte_ watching Combeferre turn the wheel to port as they turn their own to starboard, preparing for the ambush by coming in on either side of the _Chase_. Chantal’s face forms in her mind as she looks at Combeferre, frowning in concentration as he steers _. I will bring him back to you my friend,_ Fantine promises silently to the air. _I will_. She looks at Enjolras, who signals that they’re ready, and takes a breath.

“Prepare to board immediately as soon as we’re on them,” Fantine shouts. “Weigh anchor but ready to pull it up at a moment’s notices and keep at least two men stationed on the wheel, I want to get out of here as quickly as possible, and keep an eye on the repaired sail. Ready the guns to fire on my command, but I suspect they’re going to want to talk.”

Some of the men echo the orders down the ship, and Cosette steps up beside her. Marius and Eponine stand a few feet away, looking on but giving them their space.

“The ship’s in your hands while I’m aboard the _Chase_ ,” Fantine says, and Cosette moves closer, their sides pressed together.

“Are you sure you won’t let me come with you?” Cosette asks, eyes trailing across the _Chase_ for any sign of Valjean.

Fantine turns toward her daughter now, feeling a rush of pride as she looks at her, so beautiful and so bright and so strong.

“I promise I won’t keep you from these things always,” Fantine says, taking her hands. “But today…”

“I know,” Cosette says. “You already had to watch Javert drag Papa away, and you already have to risk him finding Rene, Frantz, and Auden. And this dangerous as it is.”

“Yes,” Fantine says. “Besides, you’re who I would trust most with this ship, but do your mother a favor and stay back where you can all right? I suspect they won’t fire, but…”

“Just in case,” Cosette says, giving her a smile. “I know. But if they send any men over here I can’t make any promises I won’t engage.”

“I taught you too well with that dirk,” Fantine teases, drawing out a laugh from Cosette.

“Go get Papa back,” Cosette says, giving her mother’s hands one last squeeze as she watches the crews from both ships throw the grappling hooks out, starting to climb onto the Chase, the naval sailors watching on in trepidation.

Fantine presses a kiss to the side of Cosette’s head.

Then she runs.

She watches as men from both ships pour onto the Chase, all their faces largely covered by a combination of hats and scarves, a tactic put in place to prevent Javert noticing certain members of their crew. But something deep at the bottom of her chest speaks to a sense of inevitability she cannot push away. Still, their advantage is clear, and she doesn’t hear any order to fire as she steps on deck, dusting off her tan trousers, boots making the wood creak as she strides across the deck toward Javert, who waits, Valjean manacled and standing beside him. Her eyes do one last sweep for Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac before she starts walking forward, able to spot them by their coats; Combeferre stays back at the wheel on the _Liberte_ , ready to go as soon as they’re able, while Enjolras and Courfeyrac stand at the back of the crowd of pirates overtaking the naval officers one to one. No one fires or starts a scuffle, but the tension hangs in the air as the pirates stand behind the naval officers, some at Javert’s back and some at hers, everyone’s hands on their weapons but no one drawing. Feuilly stands at the front of the crowd, and even with his face covered, Fantine sees the anger in his eyes as he looks at Javert.

“Of course,” Javert says as she walks up. She resists the urge to look over at Valjean, worry forming a knot in her stomach. She keeps eye contact with Javert, who looks back just as steadily. “The pirate brigade come to save their fearless leader.”

“Surprised?” Fantine asks.

“Not hardly,” Javert replies. “Although, you know. It’s interesting.”

“ _What_ is interesting, Javert?” Fantine asks.

“That you didn’t even consider, perhaps, that I wanted you to come after me,” Javert answers.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I suspect what you wanted was for us to follow you to Kingston,” Fantine says, and she sees by the tiny flicker in his stony expression that’s she’s right. “You didn’t want us to catch you on the open sea, two ships to one. I’d suggest you don’t underestimate us.”

“You brought your consort ship with you, I see,” Javert says, scanning the crowd, and Fantine knows exactly what he’s searching for.

“What did you do to him?” Fantine says, finally letting herself glance at Valjean, who has a cut above his eyebrow crusted with dried blood.

“A scuffle,” Javert says. “It’s a flesh wound, no need to be so dramatic.”

 “When you love someone you don’t care for seeing them bleed,” Fantine asks. “Perhaps you do not love anyone so much, captain, but I do.”

“Touching as this is, true loyalty is rare,” Javert responds, and Fantine notices him run a finger over a ring with East India lettering, despite the fact that he’s now in the navy. A memento from Michel Enjolras, she thinks. His other hand grazes across his coat pocket as if in memory of something he used to keep there. “And even less so among scoundrels.”

“You know nothing of us,” Fantine says, stepping closer. “You would have delivered me to my new master and kept me from my daughter. So pardon me if I don’t think you know anything about morality. Also if you think my kind so disloyal than how might you answer for the sailors who came my aid immediately when they heard word that you had Valjean?”

Javert doesn’t answer, rolling his eyes.

“Now,” Fantine says. “Release his hands.”

“Or what?” Javert asks, and Fantine has to give him his due for not cowering in fear at the sight of two pirate ships surrounding his own, and his men matched one for one where they stand.

Fantine cocks her pistol, pointing it directly at him.

“I don’t think I need to make myself any clearer,” she says, her heart racing but her hand steady. She is no longer a slave in front of a young East India officer threatening to take away the only memento she had left of her daughter. No. She is surrounded by her chosen family, the strength she always had amplified tenfold by their presence. “Untie him, Captain Javert. Now.”

He continues staring at her, and the moment she sees his hand inch toward his sword she steps forward, placing the pistol directly against his chest. She hears him breath in slightly, holding his posture even straighter. She moves the pistol from his chest and holds it out, circling him slowly.

“You should know,” she whispers, a threat in her voice even as she keeps it soft. “That there is a small explosive on the bow of your ship. “Not enough to harm your men but enough to do damage to your ship while we escape.”

“Mark my words,” Javert says, pure rage seeping into his tone. “You will regret crossing me. Dearly.”

Fantine places the pistol delicately at Javert’s back at these words, whispering in his ear.

“I assure _you_ ,” she says. “If you do not release Valjean, you will be the one who regrets crossing me. You are overrun.”

“You threaten my life? The lives of my men? I had heard you considered yourselves benevolent,” he says, hanging onto the last word and mocking it.

“I do not threaten happily,” Fantine admits. “Which is more than I can say for you. Now release him.”

Javert pauses for another moment then turns, removing the key from his belt and unlocking the manacles around Valjean’s wrists. Sensing danger, Fantine seizes Javert’s sword from his scabbard while he’s turned around. One of the officers leaps forward to his superior’s defense, starting a scuffle with the man on him and knocking his hat off, a mane of blond hair spilling out. Fantine’s stomach sinks and she spins back around, seeing the fear in Valjean’s eyes. Javert sees it as well, scarcely caring for his sword, eyes searching the crowd for the source of the commotion, his expression hungry as if he’s solving the final piece of a mystery. Recognition rests in Javert’s eyes as they lock on Enjolras, who still has the scarf on his face, his loose hair swinging about as he scuffles with the man, gaining the advantage after a moment, elbowing his opponent in the side and knocking him to the ground. The officer’s hand goes toward his sword but Enjolras is faster, unsheathing his own cutlass and pointing it at the man, who stays down. Enjolras breathes hard a moment and Fantine watches him slowly sheath his sword once he ascertains the man won’t attack again. He looks up, meeting Javert’s eyes from the back of the group of pirates, and steps closer, still remaining several feet away. Enjolras holds Javert’s gaze as he pulls the scarf covering the rest of his face down, fully revealing himself.

Fantine’s not certain she’s ever seen Enjolras’ eyes burn quite like this before; it’s not the love or the melancholy or the anger or the indignation or the joy she’s seen before, and it’s not quite the same as the look in his eyes she seen in instances like the one on Captain Benjamin’s ship when they rescued the pressganged boys. It’s somehow all of that at once, mixing into a pain she’s wished she could protect him from since he was barely sixteen. Yet it’s a pain edged with a hope, a hope emerging from the very firm sense that he’s _right_ , surrounded just as she is, by the same family built upon the same dream.  

A smile spreads across Javert’s face; it’s not full of joy, but rather the expression of a wolf catching its prey. _Caught you_ , it says. Without a second thought Fantine tosses Javert’s sword to Valjean, who catches it, and she shoves her pistol under Javert’s chin.

“I knew it,” he breathes. “You’ve had him all this time. He always did play a better pirate than an officer when I knew him as a boy. Living up to expectations, I see.” He moves his gaze from Fantine and back to Enjolras. Fantine sees a fleeting gentleness she never expected in Javert’s eyes that remind her of his mother, though it’s gone in a second, replaced with disgust. “I assume you’ve picked up Frantz and that wretched Courfeyrac boy as well? You brought them here even though you were chasing me, of all people. I can promise you that no matter what happens today, that was a mistake.”

“Or perhaps speeding the inevitable,” Fantine says, pushing the pistol closer against his neck. “And in a situation I control. I can promise you that no matter what you have planned, no matter what you accomplish, there is no world in which we will not fight for those three young men.”

Javert looks away and back toward Enjolras, ignoring Fantine’s words, or at least pretending to, his eyes settling on the former’s face.

“So much of your father in you, I see,” Javert says, and Fantine watches Enjolras clench and unclench his fist, remaining stoically silent. “I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see for himself when I have my way.”

“Don’t speak to him,” Fantine says, still holding the pistol close.

Javert looks over at her words, glaring, and if he could turn around, she’s certain he would look at Valjean.

“You are quite the liar, aren’t you Valjean?” Javert asks. “Insistent for so long about something I knew was true. You’ve had all three of them since I first suspected it. Since before.”

“Don’t speak to him, either,” Fantine presses. “Rene is happy with us. So is Frantz.” There’s a fraction of vulnerability in Javert’s eyes, and Fantine plunges forward despite her better judgment. “Would you take that away from them?”

“I hope the two of you are pleased with yourselves,” Javert says, not answering the question, voice going deeper as he tries keeping the part of him who cared for the young man in front of him out of his tone. “You have killed Rene Enjolras with his _happy_ consent and replaced him with this… _monster_.” His eyes flit back over to Enjolras as he speaks, and there’s a slight crack in the younger man’s expression. “With this pirate who leaves a trail of bloodied sailors and destruction behind him.”

Fantine meets Valjean’s eyes, and although he doesn’t know exactly what her plan is it’s clear he knows she has one, and he nods his head a fraction of an inch; now’s the time.

 “Tell Commodore Enjolras that we’ve taken better care of his son and his ward than he managed,” Valjean says, pointing Javert’s own sword to the man’s back. “Than _you_ ever managed, Javert.”

“Bahorel!” Fantine shouts. “Now!”

“Yes ma’am!” Bahorel calls back.

Seconds later the explosive goes off near the bow, spattering some of the wood and causing more than anything, a cloud of smoke. Fantine and Valjean remove their weapons from Javert and run.

“To the ships!” Fantine shouts, listening for Javert’s orders to his men, though the ringing in her ears makes it difficult.

“Stand down!” Javert shouts. “Tend to the ship. I’ve got the information I need.”

Fantine grabs Valjean’s hand out of instinct as they run across the gangplank, and he lets her lead, struck silent by everything happening. Through the less cloudy haze near the bow, she sees Javert striding across the deck of the _Chase_ as Enjolras step back on the deck of the _Liberte_.

“Anchors aweigh!” Enjolras calls out, turning around to the crew. “Let’s make sail quickly!”

Finally, his eyes land on Javert. They are mere feet away from each other now, glaring and refusing to let go of each other’s gaze.

“Not going to speak to me then, _Captain_ Enjolras?” Javert taunts. “I see your voice works just fine.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond, and Fantine watches Javert pull something from his pocket.

_The piece of the flag he picked up when he took Valjean_ , she thinks.

Enjolras’s hand goes to the hilt of his sword as he maintains eye contact with Javert, though he doesn’t draw. Javert turns for a moment, opening one of the dying lanterns and lighting the edge of the flag with it, holding it up as the flames start running along the edge. He meets Enjolras’ gaze again, keeping hold of the burning flag for a moment before tossing it out into the water, the flames going out as it sinks, the skull and crossbones looking eerie as they sink beneath the surface, singed. The _Liberte_ starts inching away from the Chase, and Enjolras just keeps staring at Javert, both his fists clenched now as if trying to avoid giving into Javert’s worst idea of him, but Javert’s terrible gesture does not go unanswered; Combeferre leaves the wheel, dashing up beside Enjolras, and putting a hand around his wrist as he pulls his pistol out with the other, aiming at the British colors whipping in the wind at the very front of the ship. The bullet strikes the fabric, ripping through the center. Courfeyrac runs up at the last moment, sweeping his hat off and bowing sarcastically in Javert’s direction.

“Safe sailing Javert!” Fantine hears him call out, and somewhere off to the side, she hears Grantaire’s familiar whoop of approval.

After this Fantine’s forced to look away, calling out orders and making sure they set sail; true to his word of a few moments ago, Javert doesn’t chase them, instead tending to his ship.

But still, he knew. And Fantine knew they’d see him again sooner rather than later. Valjean stands mute beside her, staring off at the ocean beyond, and as soon as they’re on their way, Fantine pulls him into the captain’s cabin.

“Why would you let them do that?” Valjean asks as soon as the door closes, though she leaves it unlocked so Feuilly, who was given leave to sail on the _Misericorde_ for this particular journey, and Cosette could come in as soon as their duties were done.

“Who?” Fantine says, feeling the frustration burning in her chest already.

“Rene, Frantz, and Auden,” Valjean clarifies. “This is an incredibly tense situation, and they taunted Javert of all people.”

“They’re grown men, Valjean,” Fantine protests. “And unless my eyes deceived me, Javert set our flag on fire and taunted them with it first. It’s only natural they’d respond.”

“Why are they here in the first place?” Valjean asks, not raising his voice, but she hears the anger in it, the disappointment, and it only makes her own grow. “I told you not to come after me. And not only that, but you brought the three of them with you.”

There’s a long pause, and no matter how Fantine wills the words she speaks back down, they burst forth anyway.

“How dare you?” she asks, voice low.

“What?” Valjean asks, eyes widening at the anger in her voice.

“I said how dare you,” Fantine repeats, stepping forward and closer to him. “How dare you condescend to me like this? How dare you lecture me? After everything we’ve risked to come for you?”

“That’s exactly my point,” Valjean insists, but he won’t meet her eyes. “You were in danger, everyone was in danger, and I’m not worth that. And now Javert has seen Rene and Frantz and Auden. It will bring him and Rene’s father to our doorstep. They are in _danger._ ”

“Have you ever thought you were worth saving to us?” Fantine asks, feeling the tension spread in her shoulders. “I understand you did what you had to do in that moment, in handing yourself over. But it was the willingness with which you did it. As if you didn’t matter. But you do matter. To all of us. And that’s why I let the three of them come, because they _love you_. Javert was always going to find out. You’ve said that yourself, and I and the others agreed that it was dangerous to keep running from the truth because we cannot prepare for that battle if we keep running from it.” She breathes in. “Why are you so insistent that you don’t matter? Why are you so…”

“Because I almost left you behind!” Valjean shouts, surprising Fantine, sounding more like the man she met on the _Orion_ than the man she knows now. He softens immediately at seeing her expression. “I almost left you behind,” he reiterates.

“On the _Orion_?” Fantine asks, gentler now that she sees the root of the issue. “Valjean, that was years ago.”

“But the fact remains that I almost did,” Valjean says, and she hears very rare tears in his voice. He turns away from her, hands resting on the edge of his desk. “I almost left you there. I would have shunned Astra Enjolras’ help if not for you. I was impulsive and selfish and I…I would not have any of this, if not for you. This family we have. This life. I couldn’t bear for you to risk yourself for me. I just…couldn’t.”

She waits a moment, watching him shut his eyes against the now inevitable tears, then puts a hand out, resting it on his arm.

“Valjean,” she says. “I know you want to protect all of us. It’s admirable. But sometimes…sometimes we want to protect you, and you always trying to protect us instead of it being equitable, your willingness to sacrifice yourself to such an extent….that hurts us. Because we cannot bear to be without you. Jahni and Cosette were heartbroken at the idea we might lose you. Everyone was ready and willing to dash to your rescue. You are being selfish in your selflessness without thought.”

“I know,” Valjean says, hesitantly resting a hand over hers. “I know. I’m sorry…I….thank you. For coming for me.”

“Of course,” Fantine whispers, and to her surprise, he holds an arm out in a gesture of embrace, pulling her as close as he dares. She comes the rest of the way, resting her forehead against his chest. “You are my dearest friend you know,” she continues. “You treat Cosette as your own. We have journeyed on this life together. I couldn’t do anything but come after you.”

“I know,” Valjean repeats, pulling back now and giving her a watery smile. “And I’m sorry I asked that of you, I…” he trails off, unsure how to complete the sentence. “And what of Javert? He knows about them now.”

“I think the best way to protect them now is to confront the problem head on,” Fantine says. “Which is why we brought them along. We prepare, and we remain vigilant and we keep a plan in place if he ever gets his hands on them. We fight, now. We can’t run, and I think the time for that stopped as soon as Javert started picking up real clues. Perhaps it means we remain on Nassau for longer, perhaps it means we sail separately so that there’s one of us free to come after the other. Perhaps we remain together. All things we should discuss as an entire crew.”

Valjean nods in agreement. “I’ll need to speak to them as soon as we arrive,” he says. “I don’t want them fearing I’m angry at them. Those boys are like my own too, now.” He pauses a moment, considering her. “I’m sorry for shouting at you. In my right state of mind I would not…question your decisions that way.”

“I know,” Fantine says, hearing the sincerity in his voice. “But just….promise me you will work on this? On believing in your own worth. I know it is not a thing accomplished in days, but just. Try.”

“I will,” Valjean says. “Thank you, Fantine. Truly.”

Fantine’s about to respond when the door opens, revealing Feuilly and Cosette. The latter doesn’t even blink before she runs at Valjean, who opens his arms out of instinct. Feuilly waits a moment, staring at his uncle as if he cannot quite believe he’s real, and Valjean gestures at him with his free arm until Feuilly runs toward him as well. Valjean wraps both of them in his embrace, closing his eyes.

“My children,” Fantine hears him whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

After a moment Cosette reaches out, pulling her mother over by the sleeve and into the embrace, and no matter the danger, no matter the storm that no doubt lies ahead of them, Fantine feels safe.

* * *

**_The Liberte._ ** **An hour later.**

Enjolras' fingers dig into his desk when he hears the door open, alert and aware of every noise around him. He tries stilling them, but he cannot stop their shaking.

"Enjolras?" Bossuet asks, closing the door behind him, but leaving his hand on the edge in case Enjolras doesn't want company. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Enjolras shakes his head and Bossuet enters, stepping toward him but giving him space.

"Are you all right?"

"I...I believe so," Enjolras says, but Bossuet sees his trembling hands, stepping forward again.

"May I? he asks, putting his own hands out.

Enjolras hesitates, then nods, and Bossuet takes both Enjolras' hands in his own, his skin warm, though rough from years of handling hot metal, wood, and rigging. Bossuet's skin is a shade darker than Combeferre's, but it still reminds Enjolras of how he felt when he looked down at their hands as a child, wondering why laws could decree they be treated differently. Hard times hit Bossuet continually until he fell in with Joly and finally the rest of them; society told him he couldn’t take part in his profession, and his parents were long dead, left the mercy of a region that treated him harshly. Yet he’d survived and here he was, smiling at Enjolras with a kind of innate understanding.

"Tell me I am not a fool," Enjolras says before he can stop himself, voice a whisper. “For coming on this journey. All I could think was that I wanted to get Valjean back.”

"You could never be a fool, my friend," Bossuet answers, running his thumbs up and down very lightly across the top of Enjolras' hands. "We needed all hands on deck, literally," he says, and Enjolras can't help but chuckle. "We couldn't run from Javert figuring it out, Fantine was right about that. It was a sacrifice, but a worthy one. He was going to find out. And you said it yourself; we have to face this. We have to prepare."

"I'm not afraid of Javert," Enjolras says. "Or my father. Not for my own sake, I…they are _wrong_."

"I know,” Bossuet says. “I think it's a fear of the past rather than a fear of the future, exactly. You saw Javert again, full in the face like that, and it all just came pouring back in. Am I right?"

Enjolras nods, then looks up, alarmed.

"Is Combeferre all right?"

"He's at the wheel," Bossuet says. "It calms him. Courfeyrac is with him."

Enjolras nods again, and quiet falls between them for a moment.

“I know you don’t fear their swords or their guns or their noose,” Bossuet says. “But if you feared all the memories they bring with them, if you feared the power they have to separate all of us, well. That would only be human.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, soft, feeling some of the fluttering in the pit of his stomach lessening at his friend’s touch. “You’re right. I know you are all so capable, so willing in this, I only…I don’t want them hurting you. In pursuit of me. But I know we…that we are in this together.”

“That we are my good captain,” Bossuet teases, squeezing his hands once more before letting go. “We all protect each other, and that is a promise. What do you say we go back out on the deck? The stars are quite nice tonight.”

“I’d like that,” Enjolras says, though his head reels with memories of his father carrying him on his shoulders, pointing out the constellations, of Javert gazing silently at the stars as they sailed along, Enjolras standing beside him and resting his arms on the rail, a child looking up to an older brother. He remembers the way they’d shine in the area near his mother’s garden, and the way Combeferre would smile as Arthur taught him how to measure and chart by the position of the moons, unrolled star charts by their side.

He follows Bossuet out, bidding hello to the crew as he walks past, many of them reaching out and clasping his shoulder in solidarity. Finally they reach the knot of their friends standing by the wheel, and Prouvaire is telling a story and pointing out the various constellations, Joly at his shoulder. They’re missing Feuilly, who is on the _Misericorde_ , but Bahorel’s returned, and he puts an arm around Enjolras’ shoulder, brief but reassuring. Bahorel takes the wheel quietly from Combeferre, and he and Enjolras lean on the rail, looking out at the stars. After a few moments Courfeyrac joins them, all their elbows resting against one another. The stars tonight look like the ones they saw on Captain Barlow’s ship when they ran away, the light leading them toward another life. Enjolras feels rather certain where they lead him now, but something about the laughter and the chatter of their friends settles his heart.

Javert always said the stars served as a reminder of the order of the universe, but as Enjolras looks out at the sky and the countless pinpricks of light scattered across, infinite and organized into different constellations that were visible at different times, sometimes obscured by clouds and sometimes as clear as they are now, he thinks it’s not the first time Javert misunderstood something.

The stars could lead the way, but only if you knew the destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW I'm sort of a tease, but I promise Fantine will get the chance to go head to head with Javert with actual weapons, I promise, though I hope you enjoyed their battle of words. Stay tuned for the next chapter where Michel totally finds out his son is a pirate, and Enjolras and Javert come properly face to face.


	19. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert returns to Kingston, imparting the news about Enjolras and Combeferre to Michel, who finally accepts that his son and Arthur's are pirates and desperately lays the groundwork for a deal with the admiral. Back on Nassau, Enjolras convinces Valjean and Fantine to let the Liberte sail out. Finally out on the sea after a month, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac reflect on the past at their doorstep. Finally, Javert catches the Liberte, and he and Enjolras clash, anger and conflict exploding as civilization starts its war against the pirates. In order to draw the crew of the Liberte to a parlay, Javert captures one of the Amis. In the aftermath, Enjolras and Bahorel talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Not really any historical notes this chapter that come to mind, that haven't been explained before, but interestingly enough, the scene with Enjolras and Javert in this chapter was the very first thing I wrote for this fic. It's been changed a great deal since, but still, I am VERY excited to get to post this bit after all this time. So I hope you enjoy!

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 3**

**Kingston, Jamaica. 1716**

Michel’s at the docks when he sees Javert’s ship sail into the bay. He arrived only hours ago from taking a shipment to Tortola, and he’d come back to the _Navigator_ so he might check on some of the final stages of the cargo he’d brought on the return journey. His eyes rove over the _Chase_ , seeing a few quick repairs clearly made in haste on the journey back and in need of real work; there’s a bullet hole straight through the center of the flag. A sense of urgency burgeons in Michel’s chest, and anxiety floods through him, sending pinpricks into his hands.

Something’s wrong.

He dashes up the dock as they weigh anchor, searching among the faces for Javert, feeling his stomach sink when he doesn’t see him. The men look exhausted but not disturbed as if they’ve lost their captain, but Michel’s heart races nevertheless. Despite the danger inherent in their everyday life, Michel’s not sure he ever really considered that he could lose Javert.

He supposed he couldn’t. Not after Arthur. Not after Rene and Frantz. Javert’s been such a fixture in his life for so long, and in the end, the only person he’s truly close with anymore; Arthur is dead, his son and Frantz are gone, and Astra has been long distant. He has friends among East India, the Navy and other society men, but they are people he shares discussions with over drinks at parties and in the context of his work, not anyone he’d share details of his life with. His father in law is something else entirely.

Loneliness, he considers, has been one of the greatest sacrifices of the power and influence and wealth he has. Most days he sits with his decisions resting around him in piles, unsure of most of them and actively hating others.

Yet what could he change?

As he reaches the ship Michel sees Javert emerge from his cabin, feeling air rush into his chest in relief. He walks swiftly across the gangplank, the men clearing a path as he walks past, familiar with his presence. There’s an odd air about the ship, he notices, feeling some of the men’s eyes on him, all of them looking away when he catches their gaze.

“You’re all right,” Michel says, not giving a care for protocol, walking up to Javert and resting his hands on Javert’s arms as the other man turns to face him, starting slightly at the urgency in Michel’s tone.

“Yes,” Javert says, bewildered, stiffening under the touch as if he’s not quite certain how to accept Michel’s concern. “Did something make you think otherwise?”

 “I saw the ship was damaged, and the flag shot through,” Michel explains, squeezing Javert’s arms briefly before letting go. “And I didn’t see you on deck, and I was worried you’d been lost.”

“Oh,” Javert says, looking at Michel as he if can’t make sense out of why someone would direct this sentiment toward him. “Well, I’m all right. You needn’t worry yourself over me.”

“I think it’s a bit due when my friend arrives in the harbor with a damaged ship after attempting to capture pirates,” Michel says. “I inevitably worry about you.”

“Well, my apologies for having worried you, at least,” Javert answers, offering a small, rare smile. “I was doing some paperwork.”

“What happened?” Michel asks, and he finds he doesn’t like the apprehension in Javert’s eyes; he looks hesitant, and when he has something to say he is rarely so. Respectful, of course, deferential, but scarcely hesitant.

“The men are going to alert Admiral Adams to our arrival,” Javert says. “So we only have a moment.” He puts a hand on Michel’s shoulder; another oddity. Javert’s affection for him is not often expressed in physical touch, and Michel is often the initiator of that when it occurs. “Let’s go to my cabin and speak a moment.”

“Why?” Michel asks. “What is the matter?”

Javert’s only ever acted like this about one issue, Michel considers, feeling an uncomfortable burn in his chest.

“Michel,” Javert says, sounding strained. “Please just…let’s go.”

Michel relents, but as he and Javert walk past a group of sailors, he hears some of them whispering, and even stranger, Javert doesn’t reprimand them. Just before they enter the cabin Michel waves in greeting at Javert’s first mate Alexander, who returns the gesture feebly, a mixture of pity and judgement in the expression on his face.

 “Nicholas what is going on?” Michel asks as Javert closes the door to the captain’s cabin. “Your men are acting strange.”

Javert doesn’t answer quickly, clearing his throat and looking nervous.

“I’m afraid I have some news,” he says, vague, his words clearly a preamble to something else.

“News?” Michel asks.

“I was right about Rene,” Javert says.  “About him being Valjean’s consort captain. The Avenging Angel.”

“Another clue?” Michel asks.

“No,” Javert says. “I saw him.”

“You _thought_ you saw him,” Michel insists.

“No,” Javert says, his tone an odd mix of frustration and patience. “I saw him, Michel. I spoke to him, though he would not speak to me in anything but glares. Frantz is the one who put that bullet hole through my flag. They’re on Valjean and Fantine’s consort crew. Along with Auden Courfeyrac. Rene is the captain, and I suspect Frantz the sailing master and Auden the quartermaster.”

Michel stares at him, his mind frozen, reaching down and grasping the edges of Javert’s desk so that something anchors him to the ground.

He knew this was possible.

He knew….

And yet here is the proof, and the news hits him in the chest with a fist.

Oh god, it _aches_.

And yet there is an odd lightness, a relief, tinged with a wave of anxious nausea.

They’re _alive_.

“Michel?” Javert asks.

“How did this happen?” Michel asks, forcing his mind into place, shock creating an unnatural calm. The Admiral is coming soon. He needs a plan. He needs to think and lay the groundwork for a deal.

Rene and Frantz.

Frantz and Rene.

_Arthur._

He has to save them.

_They’re pirates._

It doesn’t matter.

_The flow of politics is stronger still_ , he hears Astra say.

He has the power. The influence. He can secure a deal, if he plays this correctly.

But first they have to find the boys.

“I captured Valjean,” Javert says, though his voice sounds slightly far off and Michel shakes his head, focusing. “Off the coast of Nassau. The _Misericorde_ was alone, and we engaged. It was a nasty fight and I made a deal; Valjean accepted, and I arrested him, hoping I’d lure Fantine and their consort crew to Kingston as Admiral Adams suggested. But both ships caught up to me on the open sea. They are lighter and therefore just a bit faster, and our repairs took longer than hoped.”

“And you saw him?” Michel asks, feeling breathless. “Rene.”

“Yes,” Javert says, slow with his words. “Fantine made clear their advantage,” he says, sounding embarrassed. There was a scuffle when one of my men leapt to my defense and Rene’s disguise partially dropped. He may be older, but I knew him in an instant. Then he pulled down the rest of it and I knew for certain.”

“The Avenging Angel,” Michel says, almost to himself. “You were right. All this time.”

“Yes,” Javert repeats, stepping closer but not touching him, looking awkward but openly concerned. “I had hoped perhaps I was incorrect, but the truth is without question now, though I am sorry to have to tell you so.”

“And you saw Frantz?” Michel asks. He shot your flag?”

“As they sailed away,” Javert continues. “His aim was uncanny.”

“Like his father’s,” Michel says, grasping the desk harder, his knuckles popping white. “Valjean got away? He’s not here?”

“No,” Javert says, and Michel hears the deep anger lining his voice as it grows deeper. “They all got away. It was two against one, and I knew I needed to get the information about Rene and Frantz to you as quickly as possible.”

“It is not a judgement my friend,” Michel says, willing himself into the present and outside of the buzzing in his own mind. “It was an unwinnable fight. I am just…I am trying to find my bearings. I know that we need a plan, a strategy.” He pauses. “I should have listened to you sooner, but I did not want to accept this.”

Javert considers him a moment, clearly lost for what to say at hearing the cracks and the weaknesses in Michel’s voice.

“Is there something you had in mind to do about this?” Javert probes, leading the conversation but not giving the answers.

“It is technically bending the law,” Michel says, feeling his head start pounding. “But I had in mind thoughts to make a deal with Admiral Adams, as I’d mentioned before. My father in law also has pull with the new governor, if were to go up that far. I know there must be punishment,” Michel admits. “House arrest, or the like. Exiling them from the region under my care, perhaps. It cannot be unquestioned freedom after all of this, but death cannot… _I_ cannot…I think it will be difficult enough to try and secure these things for Rene and Frantz both, I do not think it would be allowed for Auden, though perhaps he could be given a reprieve and serve time in prison if I petitioned for it.”

He pauses, considering Javert, who waits respectfully for him to continue. Michel glances at him a moment, noticing that his usual immaculate dress is off; the shirt beneath his coat is rumpled, the ribbon tying his hair back half-undone, his shoulder-belt crooked.

“I know I should not be asking you to go against your history, _our_ history, of laying justice down upon pirates,” Michel asks. “Especially given the…notoriety Rene has obtained. But if I could ask for your support when the admiral comes in, my appreciation would be paramount. You understand the situation better than any other.”

 “Yes of course,” Javert says, though there’s a tension underlying his voice as if something pulls him in two different directions. “You have served society a great deal at your own risk, and you may choose to wield your influence you have earned as you see fit. You will work with the agents of the law to secure such a thing. That is still obeying it.”

“Yes, that is true,” Michel agrees. “But still. Thank you, Nicholas. I know that this cannot be easy for you to see, either. Despite it all, I know you cared for Rene too.”

“Rene and Frantz are not simply at the law’s mercy,” Javert says, a gentleness in his voice Michel scarcely ever hears, side-stepping the sentiment about Rene. “They are at yours, for you have worked to enforce the law alongside the navy for nearly twelve years. Longer really, as you’ve been connected with them nearly since you began with East India. The thing of most import to me is that Rene and Frantz both have disrespected you utterly and should answer for that in whatever way you see fit.”

Michel reaches out at this, clasping Javert’s shoulder.

 “I suspect these things will be easier to achieve if we bring in the rest of the two crews, Valjean and Fantine especially,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “You are well-respected by Admiral Adams, that is for certain. Your father in law’s influence is another factor. East India’s influence in general. But to garner reprieve from a capital punishment for two pirates, two officers….there needs to be something in return, I would wager, to make things easier. To make them hold. For only Rene it might be simpler, but for them both I think a bargain of that sort would be useful. I’m certain if we lay hands on Rene, Frantz, and Auden, Valjean and Fantine will follow them here. Both whole crews will follow. We just need to alter the strategy a bit. Draw them to us and away from Nassau so we have time to return to Jamaica.”

Michel nods, agreeing with the idea but complex strategic thought eludes him at present.

“I know they have broken everything society holds to be true,” Michel says, feeling weak in the knees, and he grabs the desk again. “But I cannot watch them die. I have never used my influence in this way before, but saving them from the noose...that is worth the use of such power.”

Javert nods in response, remaining quiet.

“Besides, I’m certain Admiral Adams would not mind my owing him a favor of this magnitude,” Michel says, almost to himself.

A silence hangs between them like a shroud, and Michel speaks before he even quite realizes what he’s saying.

“What was he like?” he asks. “Rene, I mean.”

“He,” Javert stops, careful with his words. “I loathe to say so given the circumstance, but from what I saw he was a talented sailor. Though I imagine that is not surprising given what he learned from you, though turned to a terrible purpose. I saw little of his swordsmanship other than how fast his draw was, though the stories do speak for themselves, and that facet of them I’d actually believe. One of those wretches taught him some sort of hand to hand combat; he took one of my men down with two blows. He is _dangerous,_ Michel. It would be unwise to approach this as if he is that same 14-year-old lad you last saw.”

“A damn pirate captain,” Michel says, voice hoarse, and for a moment, all he can see is nine-year-old Rene’s grin as he settled the red bandana over his hair, finally convinced into playing the pirate in his games with Javert.

Now he wore a red coat instead.

They’re interrupted by a rap on the door, and Javert calls for the person to enter.

“Admiral Adams sir,” Javert says, straightening, yet Michel cannot make himself let go of the desk, fearing he’ll drop to the floor.

“I am relieved you are uninjured Captain Javert,” the admiral says, shutting the door behind him. “What on earth happened? I saw the men starting to make repairs to the ship, I see there was some fairly extensive damage.”

“I captured Fauchelevent,” Javert says, explaining quickly. “But his quartermaster enlisted their consort crew and both came upon me in the open ocean before I could reach Kingston. There was not much to be done.”

“Scoundrels,” Admiral Adams says. “It seems we shall have to reconsider our strategy.” He looks over at Michel, who hasn’t been able to make himself speak. “Commodore Enjolras?” he asks. “Are you quite well? You’re a bit drawn.”

Michel forces himself upward, turning and facing the admiral.

“We have discovered the identity of Fauchelevent’s consort ship captain,” Michel says, focusing on one word at a time as he pushes them out. “I am afraid it is my son. Rene. Along with the boy who was my ward.”

“Arthur Combeferre’s son,” Admiral Adams says, understanding dawning on him. “Good lord.”

“Captain Javert had collected clues for a while, had suspicions,” Michel continues. “But as a personal favor to me, he kept them private.”

“I understand,” Admiral Adams answers, nodding at Javert, and Michel sees relief pass across Javert’s face at seeing the admiral isn’t angry. “Javert is an excellent officer, and his loyalty to you only speaks further to his character.”

“I would ask for some leeway in this matter,” Michel adds. “To bring Rene, Frantz, and their friend Auden in myself. With Javert’s help, if you will allow that. I understand this is different than our normal line of work given the personal stake.”

“Yes of course,” the admiral agrees. “It is only right for a man of your stature. Did you have something in mind?”

“A parlay perhaps,” Michel says. “Draw them in by taking one of their sailors, if we are able to find them. Meet them somewhere other than Jamaica. We would have to locate them first, of course.”

“Tricking them into arrest,” the admiral ponders. “Perhaps it might be wise to send one of you after them and the other to wait on the chosen island, in case something slows the other on the water. It might be best if you send the _Chase_ for the capture and the _Navigator_ to wait on the island.”

“Yes,” Michel says. He hesitates for a moment, then plows forward. “And I thought we could come to some sort of…agreement, you see. For my son and my ward. Perhaps for Auden Courfeyrac, but I understand if the third is pushing the boundaries of acceptance. That some punishment is inevitable I know, but there are certain sentences I would rather avoid, you understand.”

“I am sure we can find agreeable terms,” the admiral says. “You and your father in law are honorable men. And if we can use this as an opportunity to draw in Fauchelevent and Fantine and the rest that would be ideal. There must be examples, after all, and I want them all off the seas.”

“Of course,” Michel says, feeling a cold sweat break out, beading at his forehead, his mouth going dry as the full impact of the situation strikes him.

“This is tragic news,” Admiral Adams says. “Young men from upstanding families being seduced by such rough villains. I know you did not raise your son or Arthur Combeferre’s to take part in such criminality.” He looks over at Javert. “And you discovered them, Captain Javert?”

“I did sir,” Javert answers. “They were all disguised but then there was a scuffle and I saw Rene’s face. It was unmistakable.”

“How old is the boy?” Admiral Adams asks.

“Nearing seven and twenty,” Michel answers.

“And how long do you suspect he’s been sailing with Fauchelevent?”

“I’m not certain entirely,” Javert answers. “But I heard word two years or so after they went missing of a young blond man attacking an East India captain. We interviewed the man. Something told me it could have been him, but it was not enough to go on. But possibly a decade.”

“More than enough time for Fauchelevent and his wench quartermaster to rot their minds to their uses,” the admiral remarks.  “I’m sure they were pleased with themselves, turning your son into this so-called Avenging Angel. Turning him against his own family, against morality itself for their own ends. Using his own talents to corrupt him. You taught him how to wield a sword yourself, did you not, Javert?”

“I did sir,” Javert says. “I regret to say it seems the skill I saw in him in that regard has only grown stronger.”

Michel sees something flicker in Javert’s face at those words, and suddenly a thought occurs to him: Astra.

He must tell her.

“I’m afraid I must go speak to my wife,” Michel says. “And I’m certain Nicholas needs rest and to fill out his reports. But if you are willing to reconvene in the morning, admiral, I would appreciate that. I also must write to my father in law, as he is in Spanish-Town at present.”

Michel doesn’t voice it aloud, but a large part of him wishes that his father in law had stayed in London for a bit longer. There have been countless dreams of that final confrontation between Rene and his father in law, and though he cannot excuse Rene’s actions since then, he also cannot forgive himself for allowing the bruises Andrew left on Rene, both visible and not, nor the threats of jail he made to Frantz that night. If he’s honest with himself, he knows the level to which Arthur would be disappointed in him, and that was putting lightly.

_You could have prevented this,_ he thinks to himself. _And now look. Your son. Arthur’s son. Ruined. Possibly forever._

_But not dead_ , he reminds himself. _Not dead._

“You do not wish to wait until you have brought them in?” the admiral asks. “This will no doubt upset her and she might let word slip. We must have discretion in order to reach these terms you seek.”

“I will not shock her with the sight of our son in manacles,” Michel says, snapping more than he intends. “Astra possesses a talent for secrecy besides. It is not something that would be the subject of gossip among society women. I assure you of her discretion.”

“Very well,” Admiral Adams says. “We shall convene in my office tomorrow around 8 o’clock? I will make sure there are extra men assigned to repairing the _Chase_ so that the plan might commence quickly.”

“Until then,” Michel says. “Thank you, Admiral Adams, for your understanding of the situation. It is most appreciated.”

“Certainly,” Admiral Adams answers, nodding. “I will finish up the reports here with Captain Javert and then see to the extra men.”

Michel nods in return. “Get some rest, Nicholas. I shall see both of you in the morning.”

Michel holds Javert’s gaze for a moment, but there’s nothing more to say with the admiral present, so he steps outside the cabin, walking across the ship and down the dock, feeling the eyes of Javert’s sailors on him.

They know his son is a pirate.

His _son_.

He stops near a tree when he’s out of sight of the docks, taking in a deep breath. He thought he would be furious if he ever heard this news, and wonders if that will come. But mostly what consumes him at present is the overwhelming desire to find Rene. To find Frantz. He gives himself a moment, feet steadying beneath him. He undoes his cravat, finding the heat closing in on him, unbearable in this moment, feeling for the old crucifix that always lies beneath, hidden. He converted long ago to Protestantism given his English wife and his place in an English company; his remaining family in France disliked it, but it was necessary. Nevertheless he never could quite let go of this crucifix, a gift to him from his long deceased father, dead before Rene was even born, just shortly after his marriage to Astra.

_Come back home_ , his brother said last time he visited Jamaica. _We’ve done up your house in Paris anew. Our mother and sister miss you and worry for your health out on the sea as you are. Arthur’s mother asks after you. Rene has been gone for years, Michel, and we’re the best suited to help you grieve both he and Frantz. I think it’s time to let go_.

How could he _ever_?

Perhaps if he could get Rene and Frantz out alive, perhaps if he could gain them exile to France under his care, maybe he could heed his brother’s word. Give up his career. He doubts Astra would mind.

_But your father in law_ , he reminds himself. _He will not agree_.

Rene and Frantz will not appreciate being kept prisoner, he suspects, no matter how fine the house.

But he is their guardian, he tells himself. It is your job to do what’s best, no matter their protests.

_And what a splendid job you’ve done,_ a sinister voice says. _Look at them_.

And what of Javert? How can you simply leave him here? His mother is a criminal no doubt, and he was adamant about not speaking to her, as you saw the night she came. You are what he has left, other than his career.

He shakes his head, all the competing thoughts creating a raucous noise he cannot stand.

But his son is _alive_.

Frantz is _alive_.

He’s determined to keep them that way.

And somewhere off in the recesses of his mind, something whispers.

_Whatever it takes_.

* * *

**Nassau. 1716. A Month Later.**

Enjolras knew convincing Valjean they should sail out would be difficult.

He just didn’t anticipate _how_ difficult.

He remembers lingering aboard the _Liberte_ after they arrived in Nassau; even if rationally he knew Valjean was likely not angry at him-upset that Javert found out, but not angry at him- the 14-year old boy still living inside him and brought forth by his encounter with Javert hadn’t quite been able to banish the thought. He remembers turning at the sound of the door opening, tensing up, wishing that instinct was gone from him entirely.

_I’m not angry Rene_ , Valjean had said, a wistfulness resting in his eyes. _I wanted to come tell you that. And to check on you._

_We had to save you_ , Enjolras remembers saying. _There simply wasn’t another way._

_I know_ , Valjean replied, brushing a hand across Enjolras’ shoulder. _I know._                                                                    

Valjean had paused then as if he could discern the next step on this journey they’d undertaken somewhere in Enjolras’s face.

_You know you mean a great deal to me_ , he’d continued. _You and Frantz and Auden_.

Enjolras remembers feeling the smile sliding onto his face. _I know_ , he’d said, an echo of Valjean’s words a moment ago.

“It has been a month since Javert captured you,” Enjolras says, planting himself back in the present. “I think we should be allowed to go out and test the waters, to see if there are any words of his movements other than what we’ve received here. My father’s movements as well.”

“This is not just a normal reconnaissance Rene,” Valjean says, calm, but his voice is lined with frustrated concern. “Javert knows who you are now and he’s no doubt told your father the news, this is an entirely new situation.”

“I understand,” Enjolras says, glancing over at Fantine, who is the only other person in the room with them, though he suspects there is a group of people waiting outside the door of Valjean’s study, given the creaks in the wood and shushes he keeps hearing. “But we have been land-bound for a month. At first it made sense; we had to repair our ships, we needed to protect ourselves and strategize. But we cannot keep going this way. The sailors need paying besides.”

“We have enough in reserve to keep money in their pockets for at least another month,” Valjean argues. “We have prepared for this.”

“But what will happen in another month?” Enjolras presses. “We cannot simply avoid this forever. You said that yourself, after we rescued you. After Fantine convinced you.”

“I know,” Valjean says, resting his chin in his hands. “I know. But the practice of this is different than the principle.”

“We also cannot continue business as usual if we stay on land for another month,” Enjolras continues. “There will not be enough to give away as we usually would if we use the reserves to pay the sailors, and I do not like the idea of standing by knowing there are people we could be helping, slaves we could be freeing, because of Javert and my father.”

“Nor do I, my boy,” Valjean says, and Enjolras sees the real sadness in his eyes. The conflict. “But I also do not want you, Frantz, or Auden in the clutches of your father and Javert.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, a bit more gently. “But if we let them direct our movements, then they’ve already won.”

“He’s right about that Valjean,” Fantine adds, eyes flitting between them.

Valjean glances over, looking betrayed.

“I’m not taking sides,” Fantine says, raising her hands in the air. “I’m simply arbitrating and deciding on the best strategy. Nothing in this situation is a particularly good option. We just have to decide which is better.”

“I just don’t understand why we would exhaust ourselves putting off the inevitable,” Enjolras says. He pauses, considering Valjean again, reaching across from where he sits for Valjean’s hand, leaving his palm up and allowing Valjean to accept or reject the touch. Valjean takes it, a small smile forming on his lips. “You have to know I have the utmost respect for your leadership,” Enjolras continues. “The utmost gratitude for everything you’ve done for me, for all of us. But I’ve heard the sailors and their feelings. We haven’t voted, but if we did, I suspect I know what the answer would be, and it is my job as the consort captain and leader of the sailors on the _Liberte_ to bring this to you.”

“So it is,” Valjean says, pressing Enjolras’ hand a bit tighter.

“We trained them all a bit too well, it seems,” Fantine teases, lightening a bit of the heaviness in the room.

Valjean chuckles at that before growing somber again, studying Enjolras’ face.

“We could sail out together,” Valjean says.

“We could,” Enjolras replies. “Only I am not certain that’s wise.”

“But if we end up as two against one we remain with the advantage,” Valjean answers. “As it was when you came to rescue me with Javert.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “That’s what I thought at first. But if there’s two or more of them and they capture us all?”

“Then there’s no one to come after the other, as there was before,” Fantine adds, thinking aloud.

“But if there is only one of them?” Valjean asks.

“That’s the trouble,” Enjolras says. “We don’t know what they’re doing. And we won’t unless we take the chance.”

“And you feel the safest way to conduct this is to sail out one at a time,” Fantine says. “Leaving one crew free to assist the other if the worst should happen.”

“That was my thought, yes,” Enjolras replies.

Outside the door, he hears Grantaire’s voice.

“Gavroche good lord,” he says in a loud whisper. “Take some spying lessons from Prouvaire and quit moving around.”

“It seems we have an audience,” Valjean remarks, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. “If we do it this way it would draw us all to Kingston as they wished.”

“So would them capturing all of us at once,” Fantine says. “At least this way, even if we played into their hands, we’d do so with an advantage of preparing a rescue. Which is much easier when half of us aren’t in manacles. I think he’s right, Valjean.”

“Well then the _Misericorde_ should go,” Valjean says. “Take the brunt of the risk. Though I’d leave Cosette here.”

“With due respect you’ve already done that,” Enjolras says, soft but firm. “You had to endure capture and the battle that damaged the ship. It’s our turn.”

“Is that how this works?” Valjean asks. “It’s my job to protect all of you.”

“It’s our job to all protect each other,” Enjolras says, squeezing Valjean’s hand before letting go, and he sees Fantine smiling at him out of the corner of his eye. “It only seems fair to be equal about the risk if we’re trying to be entirely democratic.”

“It seems I am overruled,” Valjean says, though his tone indicates that he agrees, if begrudgingly, and there’s amusement in his eyes at Enjolras’ remark on democracy. “We will have to set a window for your return so we know when to go searching for you. Promise me that.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says. “Though if it is a one to one matter, I almost doubt Javert would be able to capture all of us. He might only use Frantz, Auden and myself as bait, which would leave the others to sail back and alert you.”

“But we don’t know that for certain, and he could destroy the ship,” Fantine points out. “He is not as merciful as us, Rene. I would never tell you to rid yourself of residual affection for him, because the past is not so easily done away with. But I bid you do not forget all he’s done. That he’s willing to harm most of us I know you are strongly aware; but do not underestimate his desire to possibly harm you as well. Your father is a different matter, and I do not know his movements as well, but Javert we know. The danger he represents is without question.”

Enjolras nods, feeling a lump in his throat; this is the most maddening part of all of this, not knowing. Not knowing what Javert and his father are planning, not knowing what they’re thinking, not knowing what they’re feeling. At least if he knew that he could respond, he could strategize. But all of that is as much a mystery as the sea itself, and that’s why he has to go.

He sees the flag again in his mind’s eye, set aflame and dropped beneath the water, ruined, singed, and tattered. He remembers Javert’s glare, cutting and cold, hungry for his own idea of justice. Anger at the terrible gesture burnt out the fear it evoked in him, growing hotter by the minute; his anger became colder, more controlled, the fire present but doled out as needed, though no less strong as he got older, the rash adolescent replaced with the more strategic grown man.

_Cold as ice, bold as fire_ , he hears Bossuet say.

But when he saw Javert in front of him he felt the ice melt, felt the years fall away, that fire that lived in his chest for so many years roaring to life without holding back. He remembers grasping his sword, remembers telling himself _don’t draw_. _Not yet_.

But no matter how it manifests, he knows his is driven by love.

Javert’s is only driven by fear. Even if he doesn’t know it.

“Come on,” Fantine says, wrapping a hand around his wrist and drawing him back into the present. “Let’s go alert the eavesdroppers outside the door.”

Enjolras rises, turning back to Valjean before he goes.

“Thank you for listening,” he says. “I know…I know how difficult this is for you, after all these years keeping us hidden.”

“It is difficult for all of us,” Valjean says, placing a hand on the side of Enjolras’ face at his assenting nod. “But you are right. Fantine is right. We cannot avoid this anymore. We require a new strategy, or it won’t be protecting you…” he pauses, correcting himself. “It won’t be protecting any of us at all.”

Enjolras smiles at him before turning around, and stepping toward the door. There’s a great crash of human limbs hitting the floor as Fantine opens it, and both Courfeyrac and Bahorel fall into the room.

“I told you not to lean on the door,” Joly chides, covering his mouth against laughter at his friends’ expense.

Eponine, who has no such qualms, laughs uproariously, and Courfeyrac swats at her as he gets up.

“Give a man a warning won’t you?” he grouses.

“Well you should haven’t been eavesdropping,” Fantine says, grinning. “It’s rude.”

“We’re pirates, darling,” Bahorel protests. “Thieves. That’s fairly rude as well.”

“That’s a terrible argument,” Cosette says, resting a hand on her hip.

“You were eavesdropping as well, Cosette,” Courfeyrac argues.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Cosette says. “But I also know it’s not the best manners.”

“The lot of you are going to be the death of me,” Fantine mutters, fond. “But to the _Liberte_ with you, Valjean’s accepted Rene’s suggestion for you to set sail in a day or two, and we need things in top shape before you can go.”

There are murmurs of excitement at this, and the group of them lumber out of the house to alert the rest of the crew and start making preparations. Enjolras stays in the back with Fantine as they walk.

“Thank you,” he says. “For supporting me in this.”

“There is scarcely a right answer here,” Fantine says, squeezing his shoulder. “Only a series of trial and error, I’m afraid. But none of which can truly involve simply remaining on Nassau. And Valjean knows that, in his heart. His first exercise in letting us all protect each other, I think. Rather than taking on the burden by himself.”

Enjolras nods, eyes scanning the horizon as they walk, something heavy sitting in his chest, but it cannot kill his determination.

“We will come for you if the worst happens,” Fantine promises, and he feels her eyes on him. “I hope you would never doubt that.”

Enjolras closes his eyes a moment, willing the words he wants to say back down.

_Don’t risk yourself._

_I can protect myself._

_They will hurt you._

This is not the year and half he, Frantz, and Auden spent alone on the seas with nothing but themselves for protection, he reminds himself. This is not the empty feeling his house in Port Royal came to represent, when Arthur was dead and there was no one to stand for them but his mother and themselves. He remembers the echo of his heart cracking in his chest on the day he realized that Javert wasn’t going to help them. That his father wasn’t going to help them.

Not unless they fell in line.

_But this_ , he tells himself. _This is a family._

“I know,” he says, opening his eyes again and looking quickly at Fantine before glancing away, feeling his emotions overcoming him, surging through his body as he runs his fingertips over his palms. Sometimes looking at Fantine makes him miss his mother, the grief at his separation from her and the gratitude at her sacrifice on his behalf forming an ache in his chest. If only he could bring her here, he’s though so many times, then she too, could be free. “I could never think otherwise.”

Off in the dusky sky, Orion grows visible. Enjolras’ eyes run over the stars forming the constellation’s raised sword.

There, he notices, is where they shine brightest.

* * *

**The Caribbean Sea aboard the _Liberte._ Three days later.**

Combeferre can’t sleep.

It’s an easy night on the water; the gentle lull of the waves should ease him into slumber. There’s less rocking than usual, and the wind keeps them going but doesn’t howl. But something about the silence lets the thoughts in his mind run in circles, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees that burning flag. He sees Port Royal.

He sees his father. He sees his mother’s worried face as they sailed away from Nassau, one hand grabbing the material of her long skirt as she and Tiena stood on the beach, bidding them farewell. Javert’s mother was never much for physical touch, but she’d put a loose arm around Chantal’s shoulders as they waved goodbye.

She knew very well what they might be walking into.

He shifts in his bed, which is mostly a glorified hammock but more comfortable, which hangs against the right hand wall, Enjolras’ a few feet down and Courfeyrac’s on the other wall. Courfeyrac’s on watch, so his bed remains empty, covers rumpled and tossed back.

Combeferre can’t help but smile; Courfeyrac saves all his care for his clothing, it seems, and none for his bedcovers. He turns, looking over at Enjolras, who opens his eyes after a moment, a haze of sleep still resting in them. Combeferre smiles, throwing off his blankets and walking across the room, climbing into the small bed as Enjolras moves over. There’s scarcely room for the two of them as there had been in their beds as children, but they make it work anyway. Enjolras’ loose sleeping shirt has twisted in his sleep, and Combeferre sees the tiny tattoo Bahorel and Courfeyrac convinced him into soon after he was voted captain of the _Liberte_ ; two swords crossed together and resting on his right shoulder. For his own part, Combeferre has a ship’s wheel on his left. For his part, Courfeyrac has a small skull and crossbones by his collar bone.

“I’m sure your father will be thrilled by the sight of that tattoo,” Combeferre says, dry.

“Certainly the thing he’ll be angriest about,” Enjolras agrees.

“Being a pirate is just a side-show to permanently inking your skin,” Combeferre replies, feeling the sleepy smirk forming on his face.

Quiet falls for a moment, and they both listen to the sound of the sea outside, the smell of the salty air creeping in through the cracked window.

“We both speak as if we’ll be seeing them both again soon,” Combeferre says. “Your father. Javert.”

“I think we will,” Enjolras says, pulling one of his legs out from under the blankets. “I don’t see any other way, now. I suppose the only question is the manner of how we see them.”

“Behind prison bars or at the point of a sword,” Combeferre answers, hearing the anger reverberating in his own voice. “On the other side of a battle among the smoke and the cannons.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre hears the melancholy he feels in his own heart reflected in Enjolras’ voice. “I’ve thought about this for years, some part of me knowing it was inevitable, and yet…”

“It’s more difficult even than you anticipated,” Combeferre finishes. “I know. I feel the same way.”

“But I cannot… _will_ not give up this fight,” Enjolras says. “And part of me wishes both of them would just _see_. I never held any hope for my grandfather but still a part of me always has for my father and Javert. I’m not certain if that’s foolish, given what they’ve set themselves doing over the past twelve years.”

“If it is we’re both fools,” Combeferre says. “I keep hearing my father’s voice, saying _don’t give up on Michel_. Only I don’t know what to do if we’re forced to. We’ve already made our choices.”

“So we have,” Enjolras says. He pauses something like a smile forming on his face, though it’s hard to see in the dark. “I shouldn’t make light of it, but I thought Javert might explode when you shot his flag.”

“Serves him right for setting the _Misericorde’s_ flag on fire,” Combeferre grouses. “Besides, he shouldn’t underestimate me. Now he’ll remember not to.”

Enjolras nods his assent into his pillow.

“I admit, seeing Javert brought back some of the 14-year-old boy in me,” Enjolras says after a moment. “Wanting to do things for the express purpose of making him angry because he wouldn’t listen to anything else.”

Just as Enjolras speaks the door opens slowly, the creak it makes unavoidable, and Courfeyrac tip-toes in, jumping when he realizes they’re awake.

“Oh!” he says, shutting the door behind him. “You’re awake. Why’s that?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Combeferre tells him, and both he and Enjolras sit up and make room for Courfeyrac on the small bed, all sitting with their backs to the wall, legs straight out in front of them.

“Nothing of note on the watch?” Enjolras asks.

“Not at thing,” Courfeyrac says, removing his boots and letting them drop to the floor. “Handed it off to Feuilly without a hitch. Though he was already milling about with some of the other men on my shift. I swear he never sleeps.”

“Well he does share quarters with Bahorel and Prouvaire,” Combeferre points out.

“Bahorel sleeps like the dead,” Courfeyrac protests. “Doesn’t even snore.”

“Yes but Prouvaire talks in his sleep,” Enjolras adds. “Though I suspect tonight Feuilly’s simply on edge. I can’t blame him.”

“What was that you were saying when I came in?” Courfeyrac asks. “About making someone angry?”

“Javert,” Enjolras says.

“Oh well he deserves it,” Courfeyrac grumbles. “Who does he think he is, setting a pirate flag on fire?”

“A captain in the British Royal Navy, I expect,” Combeferre says, arching one eyebrow.

Courfeyrac reaches over Enjolras to flick Combeferre in the arm, and something about the sound of Enjolras’ quiet but unrestrained laughter draws some of the heaviness out of Combeferre’s chest.

“Well the _captain in the British Royal Navy_ won’t know what hit him,” Courfeyrac says, and though they never met, Combeferre sees something of Arthur in Courfeyrac’s smile, something about the combination of mischief and determined belief it gives off. “Even if they gain the advantage at any point, they don’t know who we are now. They don’t know who we’ve got behind us.”

At this, Enjolras takes each of their hands, all three of them holding tight to one another, linked from the past and into the future, which rests unknown in front of them.

* * *

**Aboard the HMS _Chase_. Roughly A Week Later.**

Almost six weeks after he saw Enjolras’ face and lost Valjean, Javert receives word of a sighting of the _Liberte_ off the coast of Cuba.

A few days later, he spots the ship itself.

“That looks like her sir,” Alexander says from beside him.

“So it does,” Javert answers.

“I had assumed,” Alexander tries, sounding nervous. “Well I knew Commodore Enjolras had a son, and that you’d been a friend of the family for a long time. But I assumed the lad was dead. I am…I am sorry sir, if I may say so.”

“Sorry?” Javert questions.

“Well it’s a bit like a loss, I suppose,” Alexander says, surveying Javert’s face more closely than he likes. “He’s not the same person you knew, criminal that he is, and when you know someone as I child I think…well it’s not quite the same, but I have nephews you see, and I can imagine how something like this might make me feel.”

“Commodore Enjolras is deeply unhappy with the situation,” Javert says, evading, and this silences Alexander’s line of questioning.

“What’s the strategy sir?” Alexander asks.

As he asks, Javert sees the ship raise the black flag, the material whipping in the wind.

Rene knows it’s him, and he’s not backing down.

“Tell the gun crews to be at the ready and fire a warning shot across their bow when we’re in range,” Javert answers. “Otherwise wait for my command. I want to see if they fire first in response. I want to capture one of their sailors, which will ensure they show up for the parlay in the Caymans. I plan to try and lure the captain below deck and speak to him myself.”

“Do you think he’ll come?” Alexander asks.

“He will,” Javert says. “I have very little doubt. If you hear my command to fire make absolutely sure the men give quarter, and no one is to aim to kill the captain, the quartermaster, or the sailing master. I’ve given them the descriptions, but if you could reiterate that piece of information I would appreciate it.”

“Yes sir,” Alexander says, looking as if he wants to clasp Javert’s shoulder but thinks better of it, turning and walking toward the quarter deck, no doubt to dispense the orders to the officers so word might more easily spread.

Javert walks up to the rail, hands grasping the it tightly for a moment, memories tumbling into his head of a small blond boy who approached him, shy, but so bright that no matter how many years pass, no matter how stained and faded the other memories grow, his memory of Enjolras on that first night remains almost painful in its vividness.

He’d loved the boy, and he despises the traces of weakness that choice left him with.

If there even was a choice. Because at first there was no one, and he’d preferred it that way, but then Michel and Rene were there, and everything that happened suddenly didn’t seem like a choice at all.

_But you used to be assigned to another ship?_

_Two people who shouldn’t have escaped on my watch, unfortunately. So I was sent here_

_It wasn’t your fault. And Papa will teach you how to stop bad men. Pirates have tried to rob his ship before, but he won._

Years pass, and the boy’s words grow disappointed, angry, and sad. There’s no admiration there, there’s only the sound of betrayal.

_I can walk on my own, thank you. I don’t need you to haul me all the way home. You’re just angry because you shared something with me. Because you dared show me a side of you I thought lost._

But that child is gone, left only with the man, the _pirate_ , standing somewhere on the deck of the ship before him.

And Javert swears he will show no weakness. No mercy. Nothing. He cannot

After a few minutes they’re in range, and Javert hears the blast of the cannon from the gun deck, the cannon ball whizzing across the bow of the _Liberte_ in warning.

A moment passes and Javert waits, the echo of the shot ringing in his ears.

Then, the _Liberte_ fires back.

“You won’t surrender then,” Javert mutters to himself. “Fine.”

 He straightens his cutlass on his shoulder belt, looking toward the deck of the _Liberte_.

“Fire all!” he calls out. “Give quarter and prepare to board!”

Minutes later the gangplank goes down and he stalks across, and through the smoke and the cannon fire and the clang of the swords, his gaze falls on the helm, stopping when he sees them: two heads leaning close together, one blond and one black, whispering to one another. Even their smiles ring familiar, speaking to one another without using words. One of Combeferre’s hands rests on the wheel and the other on his pistol, while Enjolras turns around, giving orders to some of the men around the helm, one hand lingering on Combeferre’s shoulder. His voice sounds firm, the orders direct, only raising his voice so he might be heard over the din and not out of anger.

They are reflections of their fathers, and if he went back in time, Javert might have seen the very same sight before him in the forms of Arthur and Michel.

He hears someone un-sheath their sword behind him, tearing his eyes away and turning around.

“Captain Javert,” the man says. He looks young, Javert thinks, probably younger than he is, his hair braided back under his tricorn, his form slim. He holds his sword out in challenge.

“You think to challenge me?” Javert asks. “Oh, but you are foolish.”

“You must think quite highly of yourself if you say that and haven’t even seen my skill with a cutlass,” the young man answers, stepping forward and to Javert’s surprise, holds his gaze.

“Has your captain not told you I was the one who taught him to wield a sword in the first place?” Javert asks. “I may begrudge it, but he’s talented with one, but he is merely the student and I the master.”

“You sound just like he said you would,” the young man replies. “But in this case, I feel certain the student has surpassed the master. And in more than just swordsmanship. You are not the one who is a good man, captain. Though perhaps you could be.”

Two of Javert’s men approach from behind, and Javert meets their eyes, inclining his head a fraction. To his credit, the pirate notices, whipping around, but he’s not quite fast enough; the two men seize him, yet he does not let go of his sword.

“Unfortunately I don’t have time to humor you today,” Javert says. “I would recommend you drop the sword, because no matter how talented you may be, it won’t hold against a bullet. I have no qualms about ordering my men to shoot.”

The pirate glares at him, the potency far more than Javert bargained for, and something in the boy’s gaze reminds him of Enjolras in the way the melancholy mixes with the anger. Finally, he drops the sword.

“Take him aboard the _Chase_ and put him in the brig,” Javert orders. “Do not under any circumstance leave the cell unguarded.”

Through the cloud of canon fire Javert watches as they drag the pirate away. He hears someone shout “Jean Prouvaire!” connecting the desperate, furious voice to a tall, broad pirate with black curls that fall down to the nape of his neck. He emerges from the gun deck, his black and gold striped coat fluttering in the wind. Another blast goes off, blocking Javert’s view of them, and he spins around, eyes searching for Enjolras, who is no longer at the helm. He spots the entrance to what he believes must be the general sleeping quarters, and goes down below, waiting.

He knows Enjolras will come, and after a few minutes, he finds he’s right.

There are footsteps coming down, purposeful and slow, but Javert knows them as sure as he knows his own. Javert looks up at the man coming down the narrow staircase, the low ceiling preventing him from seeing his face just yet. Salt worn black boots. The edge of a long red coat. Long blonde hair tied messily back. A black tri-corner hat. A shoulder belt holding his cutlass and his pistol. And then, a face. Javert feels that bubble in his chest burst, pure anger dripping down; it doesn’t feel hot as he expected, but cold, sending daggers in with each breath he takes. He sees the Avenging Angel written across Rene’s face. He sees the flames lit blue in his eyes, expression passionate even in its strange calm. But still a boyishness rests in his appearance, looking even younger than he is, and Javert thinks that makes it all the more unsettling. An odd, paralyzing fear pinches at his skin, and all he can think to do is draw his sword.

“You absolute wretch,” Javert says. “Stay back, or you will regret it.”

“How nice to see you too, Javert,” Enjolras says, far calmer than Javert expects, the rashness he saw the night Rene ran way nowhere to be found. Javert notices the silver band on Rene’s left hand; liberte, it reads. “Funny isn’t it, how we meet over swords again? A bit like the beginning.”

_Will you play swords with me, sir?_

“That child I knew would revile the man I see now,” Javert says. “And let me assure you, pirate. This is no game.”

“It would appear you did not know that child, then,” Enjolras says. “He simply had the players mixed up, is all. And I’m rather aware this isn’t a game, Javert.”

“You foolhardy idiot,” Javert says. “You have always been prone to flights of fancy, and now you play at being a pirate captain just as you played at being a naval sailor as a child.”

“This is no game as you said,” Enjolras says, face still stony, but there is a flicker of anger in his eyes. “You do not know me. Not anymore.”

This time, Enjolras does draw his sword.

“Know you?” Javert says, running his sword lightly up and down the edge of Enjolras’ own. “I have known you since you were six years old.”

“It means nothing,” Enjolras says, tightening his voice as Javert hears something come undone within.

“Doesn’t it?” Javert asks.

“I could ask you the same, couldn’t I?”

“And you are proud of whatever you think you’ve accomplished?” Javert asks, ignoring the question and stepping closer, circling Enjolras so that he’s forced to move. “Throwing away everything your father ever did for you to become what? A pirate’s protégée?” He looks down at the hands now clenched tightly around Enjolras’ sword.

“I’m sure your father will be so pleased to see what you are,” Javert says. “When he sees this murderous, fanatical villain. Even now he holds out hope that there is some sort of redemption for you.”

At this, Enjolras flinches, hating Javert’s words, but he still retains that surprising calm.

“I don’t care what my father thinks.”

“Of course you do,” Javert says, circling again so that Enjolras is now the one nearest the wall. “He was your hero.”

“He was until he never reprimanded my grandfather for striking me and bruising me and forcing me to go without food for the slightest infraction. He was until I found him transporting slaves,” Enjolras says, his voice fraying the smallest bit. “He was until he forsook his promise to Frantz and to Arthur. But I see you are still running his errands. The loyal dog come to fetch the misbehaving child yet again.”

Javert scoffs. “Twelve years later and you still have no respect or appreciation for your father. No gratitude for everything you had. No, you threw it all away to become the lackey of a criminal to the point of becoming a criminal yourself. What an utter, willful waste of your connections and potential. Did it please you greatly to align yourself with the man I’ve hunted for years? Did you and Valjean _laugh_ together with Fantine when you thwarted me?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment, and there’s something downright dangerous in his expression.

“You could never dream of being the sort of person Valjean is,” Enjolras says. “Or Fantine for that matter. I thought so, once. I thought the world of you. But then you forsook me. Forsook Frantz. Forsook your own emotions to make sure you didn’t sully your place in the eyes of those with authority over you. Forsook them out of fear. You want to talk of having no appreciation for a family member? Look at the way you have treated your mother.”

Javert starts, feeling his blood run cold.

“You do not know _anything_ about my mother,” Javert says, stepping closer and trying to make use of his height, but Enjolras is just as tall as him now, if less broad, and he isn’t intimidated.

“I know that you spurned her when she came to see you,” Enjolras presses.

“How do you know that?” Javert says, voice the edge of a knife, but he suspects he already knows the answer. He feels like he’s somehow known the answer for a long time, because how did his mother know where to find him those years ago?

“She helped Frantz and Auden and me when we needed it,” Enjolras answers, not elaborating. “And she is a friend. A good woman who does her part in repairing lives that society has tossed out.”

“Be quiet,” Javert snaps.

 “She didn’t live up to your impossible standards,” Enjolras continues. “She didn’t fit into the framework you deemed acceptable. She loved you, and you pushed her away. Afraid that you might love someone who would sully your irreproachable reputation. Afraid that the foundation on which you built your life is wrong.”

Enjolras’ gaze is frigid, but his voice betrays him with how it trembles just enough so that Javert hears the sound.

“I do not owe people who trample the laws of society anything,” Javert says. “It matters not if they were once connected to me.”

“You’re angry because you think she abandoned you when she didn’t,” Enjolras says, voice sliced through with emotion, something burning through the cold, like the sun on a winter’s day. “You’re angry because I _left_.”

“I could not care less about being without the brat of a boy you became,” Javert says, and he hears the lie in his own voice and pushes it back down, pushes the voice that says _yes you do_ , away and out. “Let alone this villain that stands before me now. But your father does. Your father requires some peace of mind, an answer.”

“You are not that man I met on the deck of my father’s ship,” Enjolras argues.

“I am exactly who I always was,” Javert scoffs, leaning closer and looking Enjolras straight in the eyes.

“Someone who betrays the trust of children who needed his help?” Enjolras says, and Javert hears the real anger in his voice now, cold but losing control as the fire starts blazing. “Someone who takes part in selling human beings as material objects? Who turns a blind eye to the suffering around him, to the forgotten and the destitute, insisting that they deserved it?”

“Someone who obeys and upholds the laws and customs that dictate how we live,” Javert answers, and he sees hurt flash through Enjolras’ eyes. “Rather than you who seeks nothing but burn things down. You forget that I come from the gutter you so _proudly_ ran to, Rene. You forget that I know these people with whom you allied yourself. I should have spoken to your father about my concerns over your behavior more openly. Perhaps then there might have been some time to save you.”

“From the noose?” Enjolras asks, saying the words Javert least wants to hear, the words he cannot quite confront.

Something flashes in his mind, blurry and faded.

_Rene running down the stairs and seizing his hand._

_Javert! Papa bought me two new wooden swords since the old ones were splintering, can I show them to you?_

“That is not up to me,” Javert insists, forcing the memory from his mind.

“So your plan is to what?” Enjolras asks. “Go along with whatever deal I’m certain my father is attempting to make already, and if that fails then attend my execution?”

“I will do as ordered,” Javert says, half stumbling over the words and hating the sound, hating the weakness in his voice, cursing himself for ever having agreed to play pretend that night on Michel’s ship. “ _You_ did this, _you_ put yourself in this predicament.”

“But whose orders?” Enjolras says, pushing the issue, and now Javert does see, for a moment, the adolescent boy who ran away, unwilling to let something drop, mixed with the child who looked at him once, as an older brother. “My father’s? Your admiral’s? My grandfather’s? They might conflict. And some of them might not follow the letter of the law. I have no interest in sharing a different fate than my friends, but you know the deals that go on behind closed doors, Javert. Powerful men coming to compromise over what suits them best. They are not so pure as you wish to believe.”

“They dispense justice,” Javert says, stomping on the last word.

“They dispense justice how they see fit and to whom they see fit,” Enjolras says, voice like a rush of cold air.

Javert’s saved a response when there’s the sound of footsteps coming down again, several sets, Javert thinks. Javert’s eyes land on Combeferre and Courfeyrac first, both of whom give him varying versions of a glare, and they’re followed by another young man that looks stunningly like Valjean. He remembers Fantine asking about a Jahni as he took Valjean away. A family member of some kind, Javert thinks.

“The naval ship has stopped firing,” Courfeyrac says. “They said they had what they needed and now I suppose I know what that means. Care to explain, Javert?”

“I required a word with your captain here,” Javert says. “Though we have not yet come to the important matter of why Valjean is not sailing with you. Care to tell me, Rene?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, narrowing his eyes.

“Answer me, Rene.”

Again, Enjolras does not, and when he raises his sword as if ready to fight him, Javert seizes his wrist with his free hand, squeezing until Enjolras is forced to drop the sword. Javert steps on Enjolras’ foot, pinning him against the wall, placing his sword inches away from his neck. He removes one hand from Enjolras’ wrist for a moment, and takes hold of his chin, his very grasp dripping with condescension.

"You forgot one of my most important lessons, didn't you," Javert asks, his pristine blue coat melding with Enjolras’ faded red one. "Never allow your enemy to back you into a corner." He pauses, searching Enjolras’ face. “I saw you take my man down with two blows without even drawing your sword. I’ve heard first-hand accounts of your prowess with both sword and fist. I’d warn you not to go soft now simply because you knew me once.”

Enjolras stares back at him, eyes oddly wet but without an ounce of fear at Javert’s threat. Javert lets go of Enjolras' chin, and the boy remains stock still, very aware of the blade inches from his throat. Javert's eyes flicker upward, landing on a scar just above Enjolras' eyebrow, thin and faded with time, but still visible. Like a strike of lightning he recalls backhanding Rene, the memory flashing in his mind with full color, no longer blurred and washed out. Without thinking he runs a gentle finger across the mark; he'd done the same countless times when Enjolras presented childish cuts and scars to him.

"Don't touch me," Enjolras snaps, flinching and drawing Javert out of his reverie.

Javert removes his hand, returning it to Enjolras' wrist and pushing him against the wall tightening the grip on his cutlass.

"You'd best be careful, Rene, or you'll have a worse scar that that," Javert snarls covering over his momentary lapse.

"I have plenty and my friends even more at the hands of men like you," Enjolras answers. "I'm not certain what difference another would make. What do you want Javert?”

“A parlay with me. And,” Javert adds, holding onto the words for a few seconds. “Your father. I’m afraid we took one of your sailors. As ransom, you see. To make sure you come to the specified location on our terms.”

“Who did you take?” Enjolras asks, and now there is fear in his eyes. Worry.

“I believe I heard some call him Jean Prouvaire,” Javert says, and he hears Enjolras’ breath grow rapid and furious.

“You will _release_ him,” Enjolras says, voice full of heat now, melting the ice of a few minutes ago.

“I don’t think so, no,” Javert says. “He assures you will do exactly as I say.”   

Then, Javert feels the edge of a pistol jammed into the back of his skull.

“Let Rene go,” he hears Courfeyrac say. “Or you will not walk out of here. Dead men tell no tales, Javert. Or didn’t you hear?”

 “Not until Rene agrees to my terms,” Javert says, hearing the tears in Courfeyrac’s voice, no doubt at the news about Prouvaire, though the boy’s grip on the pistol is absolutely steady. “Upset, are we Auden?”

“You are a cruel bastard,” Courfeyrac shoots back. “I don’t need Frantz’s aim to shoot you here, Javert.”

“An empty threat,” Javert says.

“A bit too much confidence for a man with a gun to his head.”

 Enjolras moves, conscious of the nearby sword, pulling his wrist out of Javert’s grasp.

“You know I would do anything to get any of my sailors back” he says, voice rough with the wave of emotions Javert sees in his eyes, the rims of them red now from holding back. “So you will have your precious parlay.” He shoves Javert with his free hand, finally escaping. “Now get off my ship.” He gestures at Courfeyrac to remove the pistol, looking once more at Javert, the cold returning to his voice. “I was a fool for misplacing my hope on the idea that you saw the error of your ways. You did not deserve it. But I would rather be a hopeful fool than turn out like you. And mark my words, if there is a single hair harmed on Jean Prouvaire’s head, I will make you answer for it. You do not know the crew with whom you are trifling.”

With that, Enjolras storms out, a far cry from the way he entered. Javert turns, facing the rest of the group.

“Frantz,” he says. “I would say it’s good to see you, but…”

“Do not speak to me,” Combeferre replies, not letting him finish. “You heard him. Where and when? If you think we will march straight to Jamaica you are a fool.”

“Well I imagine you’d do anything to get your friend back,” Javert says, and he can see by the way Combeferre’s expression falters slightly that he’s right. But the West Bay of Grand Cayman Island will be our meeting point. It shouldn’t take more than four days for each of us. Michel is already waiting there.”

“Fine,” Combeferre answers, something flickering in his eyes at the mention of Michel. “Now go.”

Javert turns to go, but something makes him swivel back around for a moment, words coming out before he even processes what he’s saying.

“I’ve heard rumors of your skills as a navigator, and your aim speaks for itself. Your father would…” he shakes his head, pushing the pinch of kindness out of his voice. “Well. It’s a shame you’ve wasted them like this.”

Combeferre stares at him much like Enjolras did earlier, the expression a variation on a theme.

“I think he told you to go,” the young man who looks like Valjean says, narrowing his eyes.

Javert raises his eyebrows at the young man’s tenacity, then turns to go, walking back up on deck, where he finds a small knot of sailors waiting for him; one is the ship’s doctor, he believes, given the bag in his hands, surrounded on both sides by two other men, one bald and one with a wild tuft of black curls, all three sets of eyes flitting toward the wheel where Enjolras stands, preparing for departure, his back to Javert. Another young man with black hair and a smattering of freckles greets Courfeyrac as he comes above, whispering something in his ear. Other pirates are scattered across and tending to the damage, his own men returned to the _Chase_.

“What did you do to Enjolras?” the same sailor he saw running after the one called Jean Prouvaire answers.

“There’s not a scratch on him,” Javert answers, raising his hands.

The man’s faster than he looks and before Javert can move the pirate seizes his lapels, and Javert plants his feet so he’s not dragged forward. This, he thinks, must be the one who taught Enjolras hand to hand.

“Whether he’s bleeding or not wasn’t really my worry,” the pirate replies. He studies Javert a moment. “I have never seen a man so buried with the weight of his own fears as you.”

“You do not know me, pirate,” Javert says. “And you had best release me immediately.”

“Not until you release Jean Prouvaire,” he responds. “We will fight for him. You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Touch me or make a move toward that ship and your friend is dead,” Javert says. “No one would fault me for the death of a pirate during battle. I am the law and you are the criminal. If you do as asked and come to the parlay, he will not be harmed. Fight for him now, and I will not say the same.”

“Not until you see fit to harm us all, you mean,” Bahorel says, letting go. “If there’s a scratch on him I _swear_ I’ll break you in half and…”

“Bahorel,” the doctor says, resting a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder.

The one called Bahorel stops his words in their tracks, glaring at Javert but heeding his friend’s word.

“Get off our ship,” he finally says.

“Gladly,” Javert says, and as he turns to go, a young man of no more than eighteen steps in front of him.

“Gavroche,” Bahorel warns, but although the young man looks back a moment, he doesn’t move away from Javert.

“You don’t know the crew you’re threatening,” Gavroche says, both fists clenched at his sides, dark blond hair tied back under his hat, his coat a faded light blue.  “You can’t come in here and rip things up and think they’ll stay that way. You may be the _Wolf of the Caribbean_ , but we aren’t just some pups you can kick around.”

“Your captain said something similar,” Javert says. “But if that were true then I’m not sure I’d be in the more advantageous position that I’m in right now.”

“We’ll see,” Gavroche says, allowing it when Bahorel places a hand on his shoulder, and Javert senses some kind of brotherly relationship between them that makes something within him twinge.

“So we will,” Javert says.

With that, he strides over the gangplank and back to an anxious crew.

“You accomplished what you wished sir?” Alexander asks, walking up beside him.

“Yes,” Javert says, not elaborating. “Is the prisoner in the brig?

“Yes sir,” Alexander answers. “He put up a bit of a fight, but there’s nowhere for him to go, now.”

“So there isn’t,” Javert says. “Tell the sailing master to set the course for Grand Cayman.”

* * *

**Aboard the _Liberte_**

As the _Chase_ sails away, Bahorel watches Enjolras hand the wheel off to Combeferre, telling the men to wait before they set sail; no doubt given they’re headed in the same direction, Enjolras has no interest in sailing side by side with Javert. Enjolras whispers something in Combeferre’s ear, and they communicate with gestures and touches almost more than with words as it’s been since he’s known them. He waits a moment before following Enjolras into the captain’s cabin, knocking on the open door.

“Mind if I come in a moment?” he asks, and Enjolras doesn’t turn around, but answers affirmatively.

“Of course,” he says.

Finally after a few seconds he does turn around, looking apologetic.

“I swear to you we will get Prouvaire back,” Enjolras says without preamble. His words are firm and sincere, but his face holds a kind of apprehension, almost a fear, that Bahorel hasn’t seen before, as though he anticipates Bahorel’s wrath. In his head, Enjolras knows that isn’t the case, but the ghosts of his past lingering at the edges of his mind make themselves clear here.

“We certainly will,” Bahorel replies. “If my exchange with that scoundrel Javert was any indication, I don’t think they mean him harm, well, at least not at present, because they need him to draw us in. I wanted to fight for him just now, but….” Bahorel pauses, remembering the way his stomach sank as he watched the naval officers drag Prouvaire away, knowing how real the threat was if Prouvaire had been captured. Despite all of the danger they experienced on a regular basis, watching his dearest friend get manhandled like that made him feel more helpless than he’d felt in a very long time. But he _will_ get Prouvaire back, or he will die trying. “Well, the captain made himself clear the results if we did so.”

“He gained the advantage and I’m uncertain what we could have done to prevent it,” Enjolras says, one fist clenching and unclenching at his side. “It was always a gamble, but for them to take Prouvaire like this, I…I didn’t foresee it. Perhaps I should have.”

“It’s not how things are usually done,” Bahorel says. “Taking pirates prisoner without the direct, express intent of executing them. It’s emotional manipulation at its worst. A trap we have no choice but to walk into.”

“Using my friend to get to me,” Enjolras says, something blazing in his eyes. “To get to Frantz and Auden. It’s cruel. But I should have expected it from them.”

Enjolras pauses, looking down, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders, and Bahorel hates Javert and Michel Enjolras for taking that light out of his friend’s eyes, even if only for a second. He hates the idea of Prouvaire sitting in damp, dark brig alone. He blinks, feeling tears threatening him, and refocuses on Enjolras, reaching out a hand. At Enjolras’ nod he puts a hand out, pulling him into an embrace after a moment. Enjolras leans into it, hands grasping the back of Bahorel’s coat for a moment, the both of them vulnerable as Bahorel rests his head on Enjolras’ shoulder. Affection between them is usually more subtle on Enjolras’ part and more jovial on Bahorel’s but as the world shifts beneath their feet, this keeps them anchored.

“None of us could have prevented this,” Bahorel says, pulling back and resting his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders. “It’s as Fantine said; we have to fight this battle now. They may have the advantage, but we’ll get it back. No matter what it takes, or how long. Or we’ll go down fighting for it. For our friend. For all of us.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Bahorel sees that familiar light returning to his eyes, a half-smile sliding onto his face, though he remains serious. “I made it clear I would not stop until we got Prouvaire back. Perhaps my father and Javert think they have the advantage because they know me, but I know them as well. And I’m certain they haven’t changed. They don’t know with whom they’re trifling.”

“Gavroche said something similar,” Bahorel says, removing his hands and placing one on his hip, smirking before softening again. “But I know this cannot be easy for you, Enjolras. Or for Combeferre. Your father and Javert on the opposite side of a war from you; they’ve treated the both of you heinously, but I know once you love someone, that often doesn’t entirely go away.”

“It doesn’t,” Enjolras says, eyes darting over toward the window and out at the sea beyond. “But sometimes it comes down to what matters more. And who. That night Combeferre and I ran away, we chose each other and Courfeyrac over the lives we’d known. Over society’s graces, or in Combeferre’s case the few graces society would deign to give him due to his paternal lineage,” Enjolras continues, a shade of bitterness in his voice. “And now again, but in an even more significant way. My father and Javert need to make their choices. I’ve already made mine.”

Bahorel turns, facing the sea as well, remembering meeting Prouvaire that night on Guadeloupe in the Leeward Islands as he accidentally dropped his book of sea legends with the abolitionist pamphlets tucked inside, remembers him kicking that man in the tavern in the knees, and his heart clenches.

But if Bahorel has anything to say about it, they _won’t_ be keeping him. Maybe it’s a fool’s’ strategy to go after Javert without first returning to Nassau, but it’s a risk they’ll have to take, because although he feels secure in Prouvaire’s life for now, he doesn’t if they don’t report to Grand Cayman in four days’ time.

“What was that Courfeyrac said the other day, when he was throwing the wanted posters of you, Fantine, and Valjean into the fire?” Bahorel asks.

“I think he said ‘I will burn your kingdom down, so help me god’ or something of that sort,” Enjolras says, the smile from earlier growing.

“I like the sound of it,” Bahorel says, putting an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “Courfeyrac and I share a similar flare for the dramatic.”

“I am not surprised,” Enjolras says, raising his eyebrows, though there’s teasing in his voice.

“Each in his own way, _captain_ ,” Bahorel says, grinning, and it lifts his spirts as the sound of his own voice shouting Prouvaire’s name rings in his head, mixing with the image of Enjolras’ reddened eyes as he stormed out of the general sailor’s quarters. “Each in his own way.”

 


	20. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Prouvaire's capture, the Amis sail toward the Cayman Islands for the parlay with Michel and Javert, unable to return to Nassau for Valjean and Fantine's help if they wish to arrive on time. Aboard the Navigator, Michel and Prouvaire go toe to toe in a battle of words. When the Liberte reaches the Cayman Islands, Enjolras and Combeferre come face to face with Michel for the first time in twelve years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical notes for this chapter:
> 
> You'll see Prouvaire mention Mac Lir, who is an Irish sea deity. He's really interesting, so I recommend looking him up! 
> 
> Prouvaire also mentions Tortuga, which was once a stronghold of the buccaneers, who were essentially like government hired pirates back when that was an acceptable thing to do, usually doing war time. Tortuga was a lot like Nassau in that it fell in and out of colonial control, but eventually the buccaneers were ousted from the island a final time.

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 4**

**Aboard the _Liberte_.**

Bossuet sighs as Grantaire turns from the iron stove, speaking again for the fifth time in as many minutes. Most of the other sailors stay away from the galley because they claim it’s too hot, so it’s become a spot where the three of them congregate, and they’d all ended up here out of habit after Prouvaire was taken and they set sail toward the Cayman Islands.

“So let me just try and understand this,” Grantaire says, wiping his brow with his sleeve as he finishes cleaning up from cooking, which was no small chore for a crew nearing one-hundred sailors, the bricks the stove sits upon damp from the steam. “We’ve agreed to this parlay, and we’ll be walking right into the arms of both the East India Trading Company and the British Royal Navy.”

“We’ve been over this R,” Bossuet says, taking a long sip of his wine. He’s not usually inclined toward worrying; it never does any good, but with the situation in front of them he finds the feeling blooming in his stomach. “We don’t have much of a choice.”

“We’ve been trying to avoid both Captain Javert and Commodore Enjolras since we first stumbled into Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all these years ago,” Grantaire argues. “And now we’re walking right to them?”

The underlying tone of Grantaire’s words tell Bossuet that he understands the logic of the decision but doesn’t know any other way to outwardly express his upset at the situation, so he repeats the same questions and looks for comfort even if he won’t say so, his own glass of wine at his elbow.

“They were painfully specific about the about the number of days we have to rescue Prouvaire,” Bossuet replies. “And I suspect if we do not show up at the appointed time they will have no reason to keep him alive.”

“They wouldn’t execute him on the spot,” Grantaire argues. “They think they’re too upstanding for that.”

“No but they might have it done once they reach Kingston,” Bossuet answers, the images in his head growing disturbing as he thinks of Prouvaire, his usual smile faltering. “And we wouldn’t be able to get there in time if we sailed back to Nassau and they were quick about it.”

“ _Speedy_ pirate trials,” Joly adds, sniffling, his complaint of an oncoming head cold this morning manifesting into reality. “They might make an example of him if we don’t follow the letter of their request, which I’m sure was done on purpose.”

“But didn’t Enjolras agree to come back to Nassau for the Misericorde if something happened?” Grantaire asks. “I thought those were the terms Valjean gave, the terms we voted on.”

“They were,” Bossuet says. “But we didn’t bargain for the time limit. We couldn’t possibly have time to sail back and then to the Cayman Islands. Even with the best winds. We went out on a reconnaissance mission and that ended up being turned against us. Javert must have gotten word of a sighting of our ship from someone. We knew it was possible we just….we didn’t bargain for them taking…”

 “Someone other than Enjolras, Combeferre, or Courfeyrac,” Joly finishes. “Javert must have seen they wouldn’t give up unless they had no other choice.”

“But what if that is exactly what happens when we arrive for this so-called parlay?” Grantaire asks, finishing his task and sitting down with them at the small wooden table.

“I’m sure they’re hoping it will,” Bossuet answers. “Javert and Enjolras’ father, I mean.”

“It could happen,” Grantaire insists, and Bossuet sees his eyes flickering back and forth, anxious. “We might as well write a funeral elegy. And our poet isn’t even here to do one justice.”

“That’s morbid Grantaire,” Joly chides.

“Oh come now my dear doctor you are used to me by now,” Grantaire teases, and something about the normalcy of the exchange makes Bossuet’s smile return for a moment.  “What is Enjolras thinking, doing this? What is he…” Grantaire trails off, voice cracking even as he tries covering it up.

“He’s thinking that he and Combeferre and Courfeyrac have a better chance of surviving captivity than Prouvaire does,” Bossuet says, covering Grantaire’s hand briefly before drawing back again, knowing his friend doesn’t want attention drawn to his emotions. “If it comes to that. One, I’m sure Enjolras’ father has some sort of deal in mind…”

“For the rest of our necks,” Grantaire interrupts, earning a whack in the arm from Joly.

“No doubt,” Bossuet finishes, miming a rope around his neck and earning a smack from Joly himself. “But it does at least make them safer until we could get to them with the _Misericorde_ in tow. Two, I’m sure they’d use them as bait to draw in Valjean and Fantine.”

“Their plan is terribly transparent for two expert pirate hunters,” Grantaire points out.

“They don’t need it to be a secret,” Bossuet says. “They just need to find ways to make us follow it.”

“Success,” says Grantaire, raising his glass. “We should toast them for their competence.” He pauses, looking down at his wine again. “I see the reasoning, and Prouvaire is certainly a worthy cause for the risk, but really, Enjolras should have just gone to live in Europe and become a baker, or something of that sort. I’m sure he could have convinced Combeferre and Courfeyrac into it. It’s what I would have done if my family were well, Enjolras’ family. Perhaps I should have gone back to Spain after all, I’m sure my mother’s door is open.”

Grantaire doesn’t look up from his glass, tracing his finger around the edge. They were too close to their watch shift for any liquor, otherwise Bossuet suspects the bottle would already be out, and he would gladly take part.

He can’t stop _worrying,_ like some sort of damn broke inside him and fiddled with his temperament. Because even if their lives were safer, whatever lay in store for his friends if they were captured wasn’t something he wanted to ponder.

“But if you’d gone back to Spain you’d miss us terribly,” Joly says, offering Grantaire a smile, and Bossuet finds his spirits lifted by the brightness of it, reminding himself of the many times they’d succeeded where the odds were slim. “And we’d be without the most excellent cook in the Caribbean.”

“You flatter me Jolllly,” Grantaire says. “I suppose I _have_ grown attached.”

“We may be walking into a trap,” Bossuet points out. “But then, we have our own advantages. I thought Bahorel might remove some of Javert’s limbs when he encountered him on the deck. Might still be a possibility, given he’s going ashore with them when we reach the Caymans.”

“As if anyone could stop the man,” Grantaire says. “I’d like to see Enjolras try, especially given it’s Prouvaire they took.”

“It didn’t seem particularly up for debate,” Bossuet says.

“I smell the familiar scent of you two making a bet,” Joly says.

“Perhaps,” Grantaire says. “I’m not certain when it will happen, but something tells me that at some point Bahorel won’t be able to help himself and he’ll push Javert overboard. Or get his comeuppance in some say.”

“See the trouble with that is I agree,” Bossuet says. “So I’m afraid there’s not a great deal upon which to bet.”

“You’re ruining my day,” Grantaire complains.

“How about I make up for it and we’ll play cards until it’s time for our watch?” Bossuet asks.

“A capital idea,” Grantaire says, draining the rest of his wine glass.

“Joly?” Bossuet asks.

“Excellent,” Joly says.

Bossuet reaches for the pack he usually keeps in his coat pocket, laying them out on the table, and as Grantaire rises, going to fetch another bottle of wine.

“We need to water it down!” Joly calls after him. “We’re nearly up for the watch.”

Grantaire calls out something inaudible, and Bossuet turns back around to Joly.

“Man’s always flirting with the alcohol rules in the articles,” Bossuet says. “I lose sleep, I tell you.”

Joly chuckles, reaching out across the table for Bossuet’s hand, taking it in his own, sensing Bossuet’s concern.

“We did swear to go through fire,” Joly says, squeezing Bossuet’s hand. “And we have. This is simply another one. A bigger one. It doesn’t mean we won’t emerge from it.”

Bossuet doesn’t answer with words, holding Joly’s hand tighter in response.

“What was that you said about fire?” Grantaire says, re-entering with a fresh bottle of wine.

“We said we swore we’d go through fire,” Joly explains.

“Perhaps you did,” Grantaire says, filling his glass halfway.

“And so did you simply by being on the ship,” Bossuet says, raising his eyebrows. “And through water too, though that goes without saying, I imagine, given it’s all around us.”

“You’ve caught me,” Grantaire says, but through the sardonic tone, Bossuet hears his words shake. “Now then. Time for me to soundly defeat you both soundly at cards.”

“Ah we’ll see about that my good man,” Bossuet says. “Don’t plan your victory just yet. If you lose you have to tell Enjolras about your idea for him to be a baker.”

“What would they call him then?” Grantaire muses. “The Avenging Baker? Correcting injustice for pastries everywhere. Sounds like Enjolras.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him you said so,” Bossuet teases, and Grantaire reaches across the table, flicking him on the side of the head.

Bossuet soaks up the laughter-and curses- that fill the room after the game commences, resting in the comfortable, normal scene of playing cards with his friends as they would during any other lull in work on the ship, but he cannot chase away the idea that leagues away on the shores of the Cayman islands, things are about to change.

* * *

**The West Bay of the Cayman Islands. Three days later.**

Jean Prouvaire jolts awake from his light sleep at the sound of keys scraping in the lock. He looks up, seeing Javert on the other side of the bars, a set of manacles hanging from his belt. There’s less visible rage emanating from him, his face set into a stony expression that looks cold to the touch. Even still, Prouvaire senses the rage Javert always keeps simmering underneath, even if Javert himself doesn’t give it credence. He remembers finding Enjolras on the beach in Nassau one morning a few months after he and Bahorel joined the crew. The sunrise burst over the horizon, and the look in Enjolras’ eyes was so intense and yet still gentle, so focused, that Prouvaire nearly turned away to give him his privacy until Enjolras noticed him, gesturing at him to sit. Talk of the past arose, and some of Enjolras’ words come tumbling back into Prouvaire’s head as he looks at Javert now.

_Javert hates his background so much that he strives to forget it ever existed, yet it influences everything he does_ , Enjolras said. _I didn’t even know what it was, exactly, until I was thirteen or so, and he told me. I think as a child I must have sensed his ability to love, sensed his loneliness and it drew me to him, but then I learned that if you broke society’s rules, he withheld that love._

_Like an explosion waiting to happen,_ Prouvaire added _. Eventually. That can’t hold._

_It can’t,_ Enjolras said _. The love he denies makes him more dangerous than if he’d never loved at all, I think._ He’d paused then, considering, eyes focusing harder on the sunrise _. He wouldn’t let me help. The hurt in his eyes that night we ran away stays with me, but I will never regret my choices that night. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time brothers chose the opposite sides of a war. And now well. I have new ones who fight by my side._

And as he considers Javert now, he already sees the cracks _._

“Up,” Javert says, opening the door. “Give me your hands.”

“The captain’s come to retrieve the prisoner?” Prouvaire asks. “What’s going on?”

“Do not sass me,” Javert says, taking Prouvaire’s wrists and locking the manacles around them.

“I’m not trying to,” Prouvaire says. “I was simply asking a question.”

“We have arrived in the West Bay of Grand Cayman,” Javert says in answer. “Commodore Enjolras arrived earlier and we are going over to the _Navigator_ to speak with him while we wait for the arrival of your _crew_.” The distaste in Javert’s voice rings clear, and Prouvaire feels a flash of irritation.

“I would prefer you not speak about my friends in that tone,” Prouvaire says, calm, but there’s a prevalent layer of anger hiding beneath.

“I do not care what you _prefer_ ,” Javert says. “If you don’t respect society, society will not respect you.”

Prouvaire doesn’t answer, remaining silent as Javert leads him on deck from the brig, speaking again as they reach the gangplank. Prouvaire’s eyes run over the new ship in front of him, and he feels a punch of emotion in his chest; here is the ship Enjolras and Combeferre grew up on, where they learned to sail, where they learned to fight. It’s as if he carries their own mixed emotions about the vessel with him, and he feels what he thinks they would feel. He glances over at Javert, realizing this is likely where he and Enjolras first came across one another.

“Why does Commodore Enjolras wish to see me?” he asks.

“Don’t be a fool,” Javert says. “You are a member of the crew of the enemy. You have been in the ranks of pirates we’ve long been searching for.”

“Is it that, or is it because I know his son and his ward?” Prouvaire asks.

Javert pulls at his manacles in response, and Prouvaire feels the metal bruising his skin. Javert leads him toward the captain’s cabin, where Commodore Enjolras waits for them.

Prouvaire feels struck in the chest again as he lays eyes on Michel Enjolras, who leans with his lower back against the desk. Prouvaire sees Enjolras all over his father. Michel is stockier and broader at the shoulder, but tall like his son. Enjolras’ facial features are more delicate-like his mother’s Prouvaire suspects-but the similarity of their eye colors is uncanny, his hair the same shade of blond, only streaked with gray. His uniform jacket is red, and Prouvaire almost smiles at the accidental similarity to his son.

“Thank you Captain Javert,” Michel says, no doubt keeping a formality with Javert because of Prouvaire’s presence. “Sit him in that chair there across from my desk, if you would.”

Javert does as asked, placing Prouvaire in the chair and then stepping away.

“Would you like me to stay, sir?” Javert asks, a kindness in his tone Prouvaire’s surprised by.

“That’s all right,” Michel answers. “I would appreciate it if you’d take the lead on keeping watch for ships coming toward us. If they approach please come tell me immediately.”

Javert nods in assent at Michel, frowning one last time at Prouvaire before exiting the cabin, leaving the two of them alone. Michel tilts his head, considering Prouvaire, his expression grave, but different from the restrained fury he saw in Javert’s.

“I suppose you know who I am?” Michel asks.

“Yes,” Prouvaire answers, keeping eye contact when it’s given. He senses Michel’s desperation, he senses his slowly changing mind, he senses his need to know about his son. And perhaps out of that, there is something to unlock. “You are Commodore Michel Enjolras of the British East India Trading Company. You are the father of one of my friends and former guardian to another. Your wife’s name is Astra. You’re French but married into an English family. Your dearest friend was Arthur…”

“That’s quite enough,” Michel says, raising his hand. “Why don’t you tell me who you are? Your name is Jean Prouvaire. Or so I was told.”

“You were told correctly.”

“And how did you end up a pirate?”

“Pardon me commodore, but I think you’re avoiding the questions you truly want to ask me,” Prouvaire replies.

“Excuse me?” Michel asks, surprised at Prouvaire’s lack of deference toward him, his tone like a slap to the face, but still not the least bit raised.

“You brought me in here because I know your son,” Prouvaire explains. “Because I know your ward.”

“You think you know what goes on in my mind?” Michel says, sharp, but the curiosity in his tone remains undeniable.

“You’re a father,” Prouvaire replies. “A father whose son and ward went missing twelve years ago. No matter the circumstances, I’m certain you wonder about them. Something tells me you still love them, which is the only reason I’m answering anything you’re asking. It is my hope that perhaps you are a father first, and an officer second.”

Michel considers him again, then reaches for a key in his pocket. There’s a vulnerability in his voice, a hesitation in his eyes as if he sees Prouvaire as a boy rather than a man. As if there’s some protective instinct arising.

“I’m going to undo your manacles,” he finally says.

“I may not look intimidating but I would warn you not to underestimate me,” Prouvaire says, narrowing his eyes. “Sometimes the most dangerous threats do not look the part.”

“And I warn you that if you make a move to harm me you may suffer bodily injury,” Michel says. “Let us make an agreement to simply talk, shall we?”

Prouvaire assents after a moment, knowing this is but a momentary reprieve, and reaches up, rubbing at the skin of his wrists.

“What’s your occupation on the ship?” Michel asks. “You talk as if you know René and Frantz well.”

“Co-master gunner,” Prouvaire says, leaving out his duties with reconnaissance on purpose; that at least, needs to remain a secret. “And I do.”

“Captain Javert says my son is dangerous,” Michel says, looking intently at Prouvaire, leaning against the desk again.

“Is that a question?” Prouvaire asks.

“I suppose it is,” Michel answers.

“Captain Javert is right,” Prouvaire says, holding eye contact with Michel. “Though I don’t think he understands the extent of the matter.”

“The extent?”

“Javert understands René’s skill with a sword, a gun, with sailing and why that makes him dangerous. He even understands that the power of his rhetoric makes him dangerous,” Prouvaire explains. “But I don’t think he understands the thing that makes him most dangerous of all; his capacity to do what is necessary, but even more importantly his capacity to love that makes him a very real threat to the structure of the society you’re upholding.”

At this, Prouvaire sees a visible crack growing in the cold, distant expression Michel’s kept. Now, he looks older than his years, the lines in his face growing clearer, his eyes weary. Guilty.  

“René and Frantz don’t know what they’re doing,” he insists. “They were still children when they ran away and they dove right into the arms of that fiend Valjean.”

“No,” Prouvaire says, calm, feeling the anger building in his chest, yet he feels a pang of unexpected sympathy for this man teetering on the edge of what society says is right and what is truly right. “Valjean and Fantine offered them a home.”

“They’re angry at me so they turned it into this war against the world,” Michel says, swiping his hand through the air. “And now I must protect them from their own choices. I must protect them from men like you.”

“This is about more than you,” Prouvaire says, sounding audibly annoyed now. “They believe in what they’re doing. We all do.”

“Then you are all fools,” Michel says, though he doesn’t quite sound as if he believes in his own words. “You want to change things? This is not how you do so.”

 “Have you ever noticed that no matter how the powers that be have tried to quash men like me, they can never succeed?” Prouvaire asks. “Nassau is not the first pirate stronghold. There were more before it. There was Tortuga, owned by the buccaneers that did work for their governments, tossed out when they were no longer useful. Tortuga fell, the buccaneers cast out. But they morphed into something new. Something better. Something that did not claim loyalty to a country but to the betterment of mankind as a whole.”

“Pretty words drenched in blood,” Michel scoffs.

“Violence is unfortunately sometimes a part of what we must do,” Prouvaire says. “But we avoid it when we can. Men like you accuse us of bloodshed while ignoring the cruelty and genocides you have committed. Our hands are smeared. Yours are dripping.”

“Enough,” Michel says, defensive.

“You asked me in here commodore,” Prouvaire says. “You just don’t want to hear what I have to say.”

“I said _enough_ ,” Michel replies, his tone indicative of someone who is unused to people defying his orders. “René is a boy playing foolish games, and he dragged Frantz down with him.”

“He is not a boy,” Prouvaire says, knowing he shouldn’t. “And he is not playing games. And Frantz is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. If you think he cannot make decisions on his own then you do him a disservice. Though I imagine that wouldn’t be the first time.”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Michel tries, but Prouvaire talks over him.

“People are going to be hurt if you don’t take this or your son seriously. I’ve sailed in close quarters with him for years now. He is one of the most courageous men I’ve ever met. So is Frantz. They are not going to cower in your presence.”

"My son won't hurt me," Michel says.

"I doubt he’d want to, but these are forces that have long been waiting to clash," Prouvaire says. "None of us know what lays ahead. But I'm certain there's a plan somewhere in the works to sacrifice the rest of us to the gallows so that you can save René. And possibly Frantz too, if you’re able. And I _do_ know that neither of them would stand for that. You are stepping into a war already in progress, Commodore Enjolras. A war in which you’ve been a player for a long time. Perhaps it appears to others as though you have chosen a side. But I don't think you have."

“I would not have spent my time capturing pirates if I had not chosen a side,” Michel snaps.

“People can change their minds,” Prouvaire continues. “People can realize that sometimes their personal exceptions to society’s rules grow into something more expansive. That they must if they are to remain good men.”

 “You don’t know my son like I do,” Michel says, voice breaking around the edges as he swallows back the emotion, regaining control and avoiding answering Prouvaire’s statement. “This is not who he is. He has been manipulated. Coerced.”

Michel turns away, abandoning his post at the desk and pacing back and forth, rubbing his chin with this thumb. The spy inside Prouvaire bids him to remain quiet, to watch, to wait, but the force of his personality wins out, and an idea strikes him.

"Have you ever heard of Mac Lir?" Prouvaire asks.

Michel turns, intrigued despite himself. "Why are you asking me this?"

“Have you heard of him?” Prouvaire presses.

“The Irish sea deity,” Michel answers still a few feet away from Prouvaire. “Yes I’ve heard of him. Though I don’t put much stock in those kinds of tales. I’m too educated to give into the typical sailor superstitions.”

“Education doesn’t preclude superstition or belief in myth,” Prouvaire says. “Or belief in deities.”

“Your point?” Michel asks, raising a single eyebrow.

Prouvaire adjusts in his chair, sitting up straighter, resting his hands on his knees, feeling a bit of nervous sweat seeping through to his trousers, but he holds Michel’s gaze anyway.

“Legend says Mac Lir can create a mist that will protect his earthly realm from harm to protect them from their enemies,” Prouvaire says, hearing his voice wavering with emotion, but still confident. “They say he has a ship that doesn’t need sails.” He keeps holding Michel’s gaze, noticing the older man’s breaths growing rapid. “They say his sword can cut through any armor, and when pointed at someone, can make them tell the truth.” Prouvaire pauses, feeling fear flood his veins, allowing it a moment before discarding it and steadying his voice. “Your son is nothing less than a warrior, and he is coming for me.”

“What are you saying?” Michel asks. “That my son is akin to some mythic sea god? Don’t be foolish, don’t…”

“I’m saying that the biggest mistake you can make if you ever wish for any sort of reconciliation is to not take his dedication and his skills seriously,” Prouvaire says. “I’m saying that I know you’re afraid that once you see his face, you won’t be able to keep company with society the way you do, because whatever middle ground you’re seeking doesn’t exist. You won’t be able, in the end, to take the life he’s built away from him.”

“You have no idea what I’m thinking or what I’m doing,” Michel says, stepping closer again and reaching for the manacles he’d placed on his belt. “I know what’s best for him. For Frantz.”

“And I know that you’re afraid once you see the face of your son, once you see the face of Arthur’s son, you’ll know the lies you’ve built around yourself will fall apart,” Prouvaire says. “Because you’ll know the truth. Because without voicing it aloud too much, you’ve already started doubting. Now the only question is, will you find the courage to do what is necessary to fight back?”

Without another word, Michel locks the manacles around Prouvaire’s wrists again, but there’s no malice in his touch; his hands are shaking. But Prouvaire doesn’t fool himself into doubting the danger he represents, even if it’s weakened, even if he’s teetering on the edge of something, his power is paramount. Though a part of Prouvaire suspects that given his attitude, if he steps out of line that too will plummet. He’s powerful, but there are men that are even more powerful still.

Michel doesn’t make for the door, but instead sits down at his desk across from Prouvaire, hands folded atop the wood. It’s clear from the look in his eyes he’s angry that Prouvaire took control of the conversation. There’s a steely glint in his eyes now, but there’s a question in his voice when he speaks again.

“You said Prouvaire,” Michel says, eyes widening as something dawns on him. “There was a gossip of a young man who inherited his father’s sugar plantation, and upon his father’s death sold it off, freed the slaves, and disappeared. Was that you?”

Prouvaire’s saved answering by a loud knock on the door, which opens at Michel’s call.

“There’s a ship approaching,” Javert says, calm but without preamble. “It appears to be the _Liberte_.”

“Is the flag raised?” Michel asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Javert says, and Prouvaire hears the wolf in his voice, victorious now that he’s caught his target, but still there is trepidation.

“René never did know when to back down,” Michel mutters. “How long until arrival?” he asks, and Prouvaire notices him grasping the edge of the desk, knuckles popping white as the blood flows toward his fingertips.

“A half hour at most,” Javert says, looking at Michel with concern.

“Gather two officers from your crew and two from mine,” Michel says. “And they’ll come to the beach with us. I do not want any more than that. Bid the rest of the men to stay with the ships and absolutely not to fire unless given an express command from my own mouth or yours. Arm the four officers but the same rule applies. If anyone makes a wrong move this could go badly and I will not see my son or Frantz injured. Please make that clear.”

Javert looks at Michel for a moment, and Prouvaire thinks the man looks torn in half as if part of him wants to say _they’re pirates_ , yet a quieter voice whispers a much softer sentiment.

“I will,” Javert finally answers. “Would you like me to take the prisoner?”

“That’s all right,” Michel says. “Gather the men and meet me on the beach.”

Javert nods, closing the door. Prouvaire feels the anticipation burst in his chest, and as he looks at Michel he sees an eerie similarity to his son in the man’s face. Bahorel once joked that Enjolras was “wholly a charming young man, but terrible in the face of his enemies.”

 “What exactly are your intentions with me?” Prouvaire asks.

“That is not for you to know,” Michel answers. “Let’s go.”

Prouvaire does as asked, but when Michel takes his arm, his touch feels much gentler than Javert’s.

And still, his hand shakes.

* * *

**On the beach of the West Bay, the Cayman Islands. A half hour later.**

Michel can’t stop his hands from shaking.

He watches the ship, his _son’s_ ship, approach, so many emotions overtaking him that he cannot choose a single one. They rush through his head and settle in his chest, a confusing, raucous mixture. His fingers brush against his palms, slick with sweat. He looks over at Javert, whose face is set like stone, but Michel recognizes the upset in his eyes, subtle as it may be; he’s seen it many times across the years. But Javert is so _angry_ , so hurt at the boys leaving, so focused on their disrespect, that Michel doesn’t know if he possesses room for anything else. He hopes that will change, because Javert is the only person with whom he has any true room to discuss his own struggles. He wishes that small number included Astra, but he’s not certain he can ever mend that rift.

He squints as the ship stops, weighing anchor and launching the longboats, his eyes landing on a figure at the wheel.

Frantz.

Pins and needles fill Michel’s chest to the point of pain; he looks like Arthur standing there, every inch of him determined and open and sure of his abilities, taking a pride in them. He can see that even at this distance.

“The ship’s been well-taken care of,” Michel remarks, muttering the words.

Javert turns his head, looking at him with furrowed eyebrows, but says nothing. Prouvaire stands behind them, guarded on either side by two of the officers they brought with them, wrists and ankles both manacled now. He hears the pirate’s voice in his head, resounding with the gravity of a prophet.

_Your son is nothing less than a warrior, and he’s coming for me._

Then, someone steps up beside Frantz at the wheel.

Blond hair. Red coat. The sword strapped to his belt as it were another appendage.

René.

And when he turns, although there’s too much distance for proper eye contact, he stares straight at Michel as if there is nothing in the world but the two of them. He clasps hands briefly with Frantz as a third person approaches them, a dirk strapped to his belt and wearing a surprisingly well-maintained blue coat.

Auden.

The three of them talk together before René calls out something to the men and the trio falls into step with a tall, broad pirate with dark curly hair. Michel watches the crew clap them on the back as they go, watches them climb into the longboats and start rowing toward shore.

Michel feels a sob building in his throat, forcing it back down, clasping a hand over his mouth

“Michel?” Javert asks.

“I’m all right,” Michel assures him, but cannot make eye contact. “I’m all right.”

He watches as they row toward shore; Courfeyrac and the pirate Michel doesn’t know face them, while Enjolras and Combeferre’s backs are to him. Probably done on purpose he suspects. Even now, there is the theater pirates are so known for. Michel sees the two officers who aren’t guarding Prouvaire shift in their positions, likely feeling as if they are intruding on a private moment. After a few minutes the longboats reach the beach, from which Michel, Javert, and the officers stand a few feet back. They climb out, forming a line of four across with Enjolras and Combeferre in the middle. As they walk forward, Michel meets his son’s eyes, and although he couldn’t find a single word to describe his own emotions, he can find one for his son’s eyes.

They _burn_.

The blue looks like it burns cold, but the hottest part of a flame is the very same color. They burn with every sin Michel’s ever committed, and all the guilt he’s felt over the years rises as a bile in his throat. They only walk a few feet but for some reason it feels like years pass. He surveys his son for a moment, taking in his appearance. The long red coat stands in fairly good condition, though it’s faded slightly, indicating he’s had it for a while, and the sun does its damage. He wears a silver ring on his left hand, and Michel notices Combeferre and Courfeyrac have similar ones. His hair, which must be past his shoulders when let down, is tied back with a piece of cloth under his tri-corner hat, and he wears a leather bracelet on one arm as well as a necklace, all mementos of a life Michel knows nothing about, aside from what he’s read in the papers.

The Avenging Angel.

They stop a few inches away and the only sound Michel hears is the hum of the ocean and his own ragged breathing. Enjolras won’t let go of his gaze. He won’t even look at Javert, though Michel knows they had their own reunion of which Javert gave only sparse details. Michel reaches a hand out toward Enjolras then thinks better of it, drawing back. Enjolras looks down for a split second, eyes drawn toward Michel’s hand, then glances back up again.

“Where is my master gunner?” Enjolras asks. There’s no apology in his eyes, no remorse, no regret. Here, Michel sees the warrior Prouvaire mentioned and Michel didn’t believe in, no matter what the papers said. Somewhere beneath all of this must be the boy who loved his father, but none of that is present now, and Michel feels anger clenching around his heart like fingertips leaving a bruise.

“How _dare_ you?” Michel says, the soldier overcoming the father of a moment ago.

“You will not get any further with me if I do not see this instant that Jean Prouvaire is all right,” Enjolras says, words firm and resolute.

“We came under the terms of the parlay you asked for,” Combeferre says, and Michel’s eyes flit over to him, feeling an echo of the ache that always overtakes him when he thinks of Arthur. He remembers the days when this same young man would shyly thank him for the maps and astronomy books he’d leave for him. “If you want to honor those terms, then show us our friend.”

“We don’t take order from pirates,” Javert says, stepping forward, but Michel raises a hand and he falls silent.

Michel steps aside, revealing the two officers and Prouvaire, taking hold of Prouvaire’s arm and bringing him forward.

“Un-chain him,” the fourth pirate whose name he doesn’t know demands. “Now.”

“And just who are you to be giving me orders?” Michel asks.

“Bahorel’s the name and that’s my friend you’ve got,” the pirate answers. “You don’t need to know anything else.”

“It’s as René said,” Courfeyrac adds. “You want to _talk_ to us? Then release Prouvaire.”

Finally Michel relents, undoing Prouvaire’s manacles himself, and the moment he’s free Bahorel reaches forward, seizing him as he thinks Michel or Javert will snatch him up again.

“I’m all right,” Prouvaire gently insists, a sheepish smile on his face, Bahorel’s arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders, pressing him to his side.

Though Enjolras doesn’t look away from Michel he does reach out a hand toward Prouvaire, who squeezes back.

“You knew taking one of our sailors would draw us in,” Enjolras says, and Michel doesn’t miss that when he removes his hand from Prouvaire’s, it then rests on the hilt of his cutlass. “Yet you haven’t fired on our ship. Care to tell me what your planned ending to this is?”

“I think you know, René,” Michel says, seeing anxiety take root in his son’s eyes.

“Spell it out for us just in case we haven’t fully considered the depths of your depravity,” Courfeyrac says, and out of instinct he grasps Combeferre’s elbow, the other hand on his dirk.

“Show some respect, boy,” Javert says, a growl in his voice.

“Why should I?” Courfeyrac argues. “You drew us here knowing we’d risk anything to save our friend. Is that what honorable men do, Captain Javert?”

“You have not changed at all, Auden,” Michel says. “And I’m afraid we must do as we see fit in this situation. The same rules of honor do not apply when handling criminals.”

“René was right all those years ago,” Combeferre says, meeting Michel’s eyes. “My father _would_ be ashamed of you.”

The words cut Michel deep, a knife across his heart, and before he even says his next words, he regrets them.

“And you believe your father would be pleased to see you as a pirate?” Michel says. “More than one of us standing here would have disappointed him, I’m afraid.”

Michel watches Combeferre’s breaths grow rapid, but his words remain razor sharp.

“It’s interesting that you think so,” Combeferre answers with no lack of sarcasm. “Given René and I are the ones who have done things in his memory. Honored the things he believed in. We found my mother, chained below the decks of an East India ship. You never even looked for her and participated in the trade that put her there. So pardon me if I think you’ve lost any right to comment on who he would have been ashamed of.”

Michel stares at Combeferre, feeling as if someone’s fist has connected directly with his chest. _You found Chantal?_ He wants to ask. _On an_ _East India ship?_ But he cannot make the words come out. Instead he turns back to his son, evening out his voice.

“You, Frantz, and Auden will be coming with us back to Kingston,” Michel says. “And there will not be any argument on the matter.”

Michel hears the sound of Enjolras drawing his sword and reaches for his own, but he’s slower than his son. His cutlass clangs against Enjolras’, which is already pointed in his direction. His eyes widen, and he tightens his grip on the hilt, covering up his shock; despite everything, he didn’t expect his son to draw a weapon against him.

“René,” Michel says, honing in on his son and trying to forget, for the moment, that anything else surrounds them. “Do not make me fight you. Do not fight the inevitable.”

Enjolras holds his ground, eyes narrowing. Michel leans in closer, as much as he can with their swords crossed against one another, lowering his voice.

“Your two friends will not walk away from here with their freedom if you do not surrender,” Michel says. He watches hurt gather in his son’s eyes, reflected by the pain in his own chest. _For their own good_ , he repeats to himself. _For their own good_.

Enjolras flinches, but still doesn’t drop his weapon.

“Drop the sword René,” Javert commands. “And step away from your father. Or you will not like our answer to your defiance. ”

Enjolras’ expert grip loosens.

“We will fire on your ship,” Michel says. “There’s one of yours and three of ours. Consider the consequences. I’ve heard first-hand accounts, and I know you’re a talented strategist. Think about it.”

“As if you care about their lives,” Enjolras says, and Michel hears emotion finally bubbling up in his voice. “As if you don’t have plans for them to sail back to Nassau and draw Valjean and Fantine to Kingston.”

“I cannot predict the future,” Michel says. “What is most important to me here and now is that the three of you come with us. You say I’m not a man of honor for bringing you here? Well, I’m giving you something in return for your agreement. Surrender, and your friends go free.”

Finally, Enjolras drops his cutlass and it falls to the sand with a soft thud, yet he does not look defeated, only resigned to what he must do in this moment.  

_But I don’t think he understands the thing that makes him most dangerous of all,_ Michel hears Prouvaire say _. His capacity to do what is necessary, but even more importantly his capacity to love that makes him a very real threat to the structure of the society you’re upholding_

“Give me your hands son,” Michel says, taking the set of manacles from his belt.

Enjolras complies, looking over at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both of whom follow suit. Michel feels the miniscule trembling of his son’s hands as he locks the manacles around his wrists, Enjolras’ eyes shutting for a second at the sound of them closing. Michel bends down, locking a second pair around Enjolras’ ankles, removing the shoulder belt holding the cutlass sheath and pistol as Javert and one of the other officers does the same with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, handing the weapons to the officers. Michel picks up his son’s sword from the sand.

“It’s for your own safety,” Michel says as he looks up, only met with Enjolras’ glare.

“His own safety?” Bahorel cuts in, stepping forward, and Prouvaire steps with him. “How on earth is any of this for any of their safety?”

Bahorel's hand curls around the handle of his cutlass, and Michel turns Enjolras around, one arm wrapped around his front and the other grasping the back of his coat.

"There are officers poised to shoot, fool," Javert says. "You should value your life more when it’s been handed to you."

"As if you don't have designs on ending it when it suits you," Bahorel spits. "Those three men you're chaining are my brothers. My family. I won't leave them with anyone. Especially not with the two of you."

"Do not pretend you know about our past," Michel says, but he feels an out of place sense of empathy for the younger man.

"I _do_ know," Bahorel says. "I know that sometimes still your son flinches out of reflex when even the people who love him touch him unexpectedly. I know that look Combeferre gets in his eyes when he's at the wheel at night, missing the father whose promise you betrayed. I've seen the slaves packed together in rows on East India ships. You participated in that, even if a child you claimed to love could have easily been one of them. There's not much more to know."

"I _never_ hit my son," Michel insists, yet he cannot summon defenses for the other things Bahorel listed.  

"No, you just let his grandfather get away with it," Bahorel says. "You let him hit your son and you let him threaten your ward with jail. I don't really have time to list off all your crimes, commodore. If you're sorry you'll let us be on our way."

“The criminal speaking of crimes,” Javert says, unimpressed.

“Do not test me again,” Bahorel says in response, turning toward Javert, and something in his expression tells Michel that he knows at least pieces of Javert’s background, knows he despises the place from whence he came and wonders why. “I was a sailor forced to quit my long time employ because I wouldn’t take part in the slave trade after East India all but forced my small merchant captain into it. I am a Jewish man whose family was kicked out of their home in Saint-Pierre because of our heritage. Do you know where my mother and sisters and I could go and not face that? Nassau. You want to talk about my crimes, Captain Javert? Let’s discuss why I started committing them. Let’s discuss whose crimes are more severe. French, English, Spanish, it scarcely matters. Your guilt is all the same.”

Bahorel moves as if to unsheath his sword and Michel instinctively tightens his grip on the back of René's coat.

"Bahorel," Enjolras says, surprising Michel. "I need you to go back the ship."

Bahorel’s head whips around, looking back at Enjolras, desperate as if he knows this was almost inevitable, but doing everything he could to fight against the tide.

"Enjolras..."

"Captain's orders," Enjolras says, firm, but his voice wavers ever so much. Bahorel's hand flinches again, and Michel watches Prouvaire rest an exceedingly gentle hand on his friend's forearm. He stands up on his tiptoes, whispering something they can't hear into Bahorel's ear, and Michel watches the tension in his shoulders dissipate, if only a fraction. He removes his hand from the cutlass, but Provaire doesn't take his off Bahorel's arm, squeezing it in comfort.

They don't think of themselves as villains at all, Michel realizes. To these pirates, men like him _are_ the villains.

“If you think we won’t fight for them,” Prouvaire says, staring Michel in the face, the threat crystal clear. “Then you are sorely mistaken. Even if you know we’re coming, you won’t know how. You won’t know when. And you will never be ready.”

Bahorel and Prouvaire glance back at Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac once more before they climb in the longboats, and Michel feels his son’s anger emanating from within his grasp. There’s a long, painful silence as they watch the two of them row back to the _Liberte_ , now devoid of its captain, quartermaster, and navigator.

It’s Enjolras who breaks the silence, and when he speaks, Michel finds himself experiencing an emotion he never thought his son could evoke in him.

Fear.

“If you think this show you’ve put on will make me change my mind, you are wrong. I may have surrendered my sword for now, but I will not surrender my mind,” Enjolras says, not just the pirate he is now, but the boy betrayed by his father once again. “I will not beg forgiveness from civilization. I will not beg forgiveness from a king. And I will certainly not beg forgiveness from you.”

“Enough, René,” Michel chides. He looks over at Javert, who has Combeferre by the arm while one of the officers grasps Courfeyrac. “Back to the ships, I want to set sail in an hour. My first mate has relinquished his cabin temporarily. Place Frantz and Auden there and make certain the door is under guard before you return to the _Chase_. Tell the men they are not to be roughly handled or they will answer to me for it. I am going to speak to my son alone.”

“Consider it done,” Javert replies. “Are we to set our course immediately for Kingston?”

Michel nods, then clasps Javert’s shoulder a moment before grasping Enjolras’ arm and heading back toward the _Navigator_ , signaling at his consort ship to make ready for sail.

Half an hour later, orders given and the whispers of his men trailing behind him, he shuts the door to his cabin. Michel watches Enjolras’ eyes rove around, the room so familiar yet filled with the ghosts of a past life.

Michel brings the chair of his desk around, depositing Enjolras in it and wincing internally at the sound of the manacles. He fills out the chair now in a way he couldn't as a boy and even an adolescent, and Michel aches for looking at him. He pulls up the other chair and sits down across from Enjolras, but still within reach. Enjolras doesn’t look at him, hands resting on the arms of the chair, hands clenching at the wood.

“You’re angry at me,” Michel says, but it doesn’t draw Enjolras’ eyes toward him. “I understand. But what you also need to understand is that I’ve made the best choice I could, René. I looked for you for years. Searched all over.”

“I know,” Enjolras answers, tone less harsh than Michel expects. “I saw the flyers.”

“Then you know I couldn’t allow you to slip through my fingers after twelve years,” Michel continues. “I worked too hard to find you.”

“It apparently matters very little to you how I feel about the situation,” Enjolras replies. “I left for a reason, and you know I wouldn’t have allowed myself to be drawn back here unless it was for a purpose I could not avoid.”

“How did you get out of Port Royal?” Michel asks.

“I am not going to tell you that,” Enjolras says. “I will not risk the life of the captain who helped me.”

“Can you at least tell me where you went?” Michel asks, frustrated.

“We gathered work on ships for a year and a half,” Enjolras tells him. “Going around the region trying to survive. Nothing lasted long because you were constantly on our heels, and many of the merchant captains weren’t exactly kind to Frantz.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Michel fills in the blanks with his own images, feeling heavy at the idea of the things the three of them would endure in order to stay away from him, from all the things he’d let happen. “Then we found Nassau.”

"I think you need to explain to me exactly what it is you think you're doing," Michel says. “I never thought I’d see the day where my son was one of the most wanted pirates in the region.”

"I’m doing what you never had the courage to do," René answers, still refusing to look at him.

"Courage?" Michel asks. "You think yourself a hero, do you?"

"Being a hero has nothing to do with it," Enjolras answers, picking a spot on the floor and staring at it. "It’s about doing what’s right in the face of a society that says otherwise, that twists logic to fit what suits them best. I am but a soldier in that fight."

"Do you have any idea of the gravity of the crimes you have committed?" Michel asks. "Do you have any idea of the lengths I will have to go to save you from this?"

"I didn't ask you to save me. I used to, and you never did," Enjolras answers. "I don’t know what you’re planning or what sort of deal you’re striking, but I have no desire to watch you send my friends to their deaths as a bargaining chip to keep me alive. I’m certain Frantz feels the same. That is not how you will win back our trust.”

"René, look at me," Michel says, avoiding the statement and softening his voice, though it still sounds like a command.

Enjolras still doesn't, remaining quiet and stock still. Michel reaches across the space between their chairs, loosely taking Enjolras’ chin in his hand. Enjolras flinches and Michel feels guilt rush through, creating a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Finally, Enjolras meets his eyes, and they burn Michel to the core again, yet the melancholy he sees in their depths makes his hands shake once more. They consider each other, and for a moment, Michel sees a piece of the boy who loved him and the boy he betrayed. Enjolras breaks the moment first, pulling back.

"Let go of me," he says, firm, with the tiniest break in his voice that Michel only hears because he knows to look for the sound.

Michel does, feeling the anger curl up around his heart again.

"You will show me respect, son," he says.

"Why?" Enjolras asks, an echo of Courfeyrac’s earlier words, and through the fury something glistens in his eyes, but he doesn't back down. "Why do I owe you, a man who treated Frantz the way you did, who has committed the atrocities that you have, who allowed my grandfather to leave bruises all over me, respect?”

"I used to know a boy who loved to the depths of his soul," he says, whispering now

"That has not changed," Enjolras answers, looking away again. "It's only that you don't like where I'm directing the sentiment. The papers would have people believe pirates are monsters who do not love at all, when really we are the ones who understand the true meaning of the word."

 “You think yourself a monster?”

“No,” Enjolras answers. “But you do. You think all men like me are. That I have done some things out of necessity that I did not like is certain. Why would I be an exception to the rule? Javert certainly had no qualms about using the word in reference to me.”

“I’m certain he didn’t truly mean it,” Michel insists. “He missed you as well, no matter what he says to the contrary. And you are an exception because you are my son. My child.”

“It does not make me any less a pirate,” Enjolras answers, and there’s a sympathy in his tone. “It does not make me any less the sort of man you would call a monster. That you would send to the gallows.”

“And you are so willing to be called a monster?” Michel asks. “You are so willing to accept it?”

“I am willing to take on whatever mantle is required. If the world needs to see me and people like me as monsters until the truth is revealed to as many as possible and they see who the real monsters are, I will do it. And I won’t regret.” 

“You have no regrets?”

“I will not ask forgiveness from people who have treated good men and women with such cruelty and disregard, both people I love and people I have never met,” Enjolras continues. “That I have my own personal pain is certain. At your hands, at grandfather’s, and Javert’s. But I was not shunned by society from birth. Theirs is a different kind of pain, and one that will not go away unless things change. I witnessed it first with the way Frantz was treated, and then I saw it was so much more far-reaching than that. I cannot do anything other than try and change that.”

 “I am _sorry_ for what I allowed,” Michel says, and his son looks up, surprised at his words. “I have been unable to forgive myself for many of the things that happened, especially in those last days before you, Frantz, and Auden ran away. But this cannot be your answer, this war against the world.”

Enjolras stares at him, and he looks once more like the boy Michel knew. 

“This is about so much more than any kind of way to get back at you, father,” he says, sounding oddly gentle. “Your actions lit the spark in me. I saw what I wanted to change, and Nassau was a place for me to run. I found a home. I found that piracy was the way I could make that change. You refuse to see the hand you had in creating these monsters you wish to put down. The slave trade, the economic inequality, the impressment. I could go on, but it all comes down to people as profit and commodities rather than living, breathing human beings.”

Michel stands up and turns away, feeling frustration flood through him, resting his clenched fist against the wall, his back to his son. 

“You cannot be reasoned with,” Michel says, voice harsh again. “You have cast aside all those who loved you. You have cast me aside.”

There is a pause, a silence, and Michel feels his son’s anger building to a point that is tangible, yet when he speaks, he does not raise his voice.

“If you think it was easy for me to watch the father I loved and looked up to turn into the person you are now, if you think it was easy to leave my home and my life behind,” Enjolras says. “Then you still do not understand. But I had to get away from grandfather, and more importantly Frantz had to get away from him. And from you, who stopped nothing. And then, we had to find a way to fight back. I did not revel in the hurt I left behind me, but you did not stop the hurt you saw before you. Even if some of those things hadn’t happened, I suspect I would not have been the son you wished for because I have known since before I found it that this was my role.”

Michel says nothing, feeling the guilt choke him and yet he cannot say _you are right_.

“If you came to me,” Enjolras says, slow with his words. “If you joined us…that it would take time for my forgiveness, for Frantz’s, that would be without question. I despise grandfather. But I did not hate you and Javert, hurt and angry as I was. As I am. Because I see in both of you the potential to change. Even now, despite it all.”

Michel turns back around, unable to believe his son’s words and yet finding himself drawn to them. 

“Are you _seriously_ suggesting that I join a lawless gang of pirates?” he asks, shock coursing through his voice. “That I, someone who has hunted them for years, would find myself at home in their embrace? They would kill me the moment they saw me.”

“You would likely require my protection for a time,” Enjolras admits. “As well as Valjean’s protection.”

“Oh yes, I’m certain Valjean would be absolutely willing to lend his hand to me,” Michel says, sarcastic.

“You don’t know him,” Enjolras insists, anger flaring in his eyes again. “Valjean has taken people in until his house and his crew both were full to bursting. He and Fantine have done more good than you understand, because you refuse to see it as such. The pirates I know are glad to accept any man who is willing to stand up against the crown. Even former enemies, once trust is earned.”

“You are more far gone than I even expected,” Michel says.

“And you more stubbornly blind,” Enjolras retorts.

“These pirates have put these thoughts into your head,” Michel says. “They have turned you against me.”

“You did that yourself,” Enjolras says. “And those _pirates_ have names. Those _pirates_ are my family. My brothers and sisters in arms. And you cannot change that.”

Michel circles the room and back around to his desk, inches away from his son now.

“How long have you been with them?” he asks. “With Valjean and Fantine?”

“Is this some sort of interrogation?” Enjolras asks. “You can’t put away your job for more than a few moments at a time, can you?”

“It is a father asking his son a question,” Michel says, feeling the urge to smack his desk in frustration, but something about Bahorel’s earlier words stop him.

_I know that sometimes still your son flinches out of reflex when even the people who love him touch him unexpectedly._

“Since I was sixteen,” Enjolras answers. “But if you think I’m going to freely hand you information on Valjean, Fantine, or my crew, then you are mistaken.”

“You have been with them since before Javert even started suspecting,” Michel says, the truth coming down on his head. “And for all those years I wouldn’t listen to him because I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, releasing an annoyed breath. “You would trust Javert nearly implicitly, yet I’m sure you must have been witness to him shunning his mother.”

“Something else you and he have in common aside from swordsmanship then,” Michel shoots back. “Javert is allowed to do as he will in his own relationships. His mother is likely a criminal. Your _father_ meanwhile, is trying to save your life.”

“She is a good woman,” Enjolras says, and Michel hears that danger that both Prouvaire and Javert mentioned resting underneath his words.

“We are done for now,” Michel declares. “We will revisit this when you find yourself more reasonable.”

“Take me back to Frantz and Auden then,” Enjolras says.

“Under no circumstance,” Michel says. “If there were space on the ship I would have all three of you in separate rooms but as it stands they will stay in my first mate’s cabin and you will stay here.”

Michel pulls Enjolras up from his chair, placing him on the second bed in the corner of the cabin, far too large for him as a child, and now almost too small. Michel undoes one of the manacles around his wrists and attaches it to a loop on the wall so he cannot move from the bed, but giving him freedom of movement with one hand. He undoes the manacles around his ankles, taking them back with him to his desk.

“These will remain off until we reach Kingston unless you attempt to escape or do harm,” Michel says. “Now go to sleep.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer for a moment, removing his hat, and running a finger over the ring on his left hand.

“What does mother think of your plan?” he finally says. “Will you even allow me to see her?”

“As if I could keep her from you,” Michel answers. The truth is Astra is furious at him, and he won’t soon forget her shouting that she would rather them be pirates than brought back to Kingston. “And she is uncertain on this. But regardless, she will not miss a chance to lay eyes on you herself.”

“How is she?” Enjolras asks, and Michel looks up again at the words.

“She’s been missing her son for twelve years, René,” Michel says in explanation. “She’s been missing Frantz.”

“And my _grandfather_?” Enjolras asks, and Michel hears the hot anger in his voice, mixed with the tiniest bit of audible distress. “Will he be meeting us in Kingston?”

“Not immediately,” Michel answers, feeling his stomach drop at the mention of his father in law. “He is on business in Spanish-town. He will arrive a day or two after us.”

Enjolras studies him, and Michel feels as if his son reads his mind.

“You’re relieved he’ll be delayed,” Enjolras says, eyes narrowing in thought. “You don’t want him involved in whatever initial deal you’re trying to make. I don’t know why, but you don’t. Finally seeing him for the wretch he is, are you?”

“We do not always see eye to eye,” Michel says, keeping his annoyance at his father in law out of his voice, and offering nothing else.

Something about the words cause René to lie down, turning so that he faces away from his father, but Michel sees from the curve of his back, from the stiff, alert posture visible even beneath his coat, he won’t dare fall asleep until it inevitably captures him.

“René?” Michel asks.

“You said we were done,” Enjolras answers, and Michel can barely stand the sadness in his tone, and for a moment, even the bright blond hair seems dimmer. “You have taken me from my home, from my crew, and my life. So kindly leave me alone.”

Michel’s eyes land on the red marks the manacles left on his son’s free wrist, feeling a sudden desire to kiss the small wound as he had his son’s childhood scratches.

“I’m doing what’s best for you,” Michel says after a beat. “And what’s best for Frantz. I am your family, René. That cannot be denied.”

But his words are only met with silence, as if his son wasn’t in the room at all.

* * *

**The Pirate Republic at Nassau. A few days later.**

It’s dark when they reach Nassau.

Feuilly looks up at the sky as they dock, thinking he’s never heard the crew remain so utterly silent. The clouds are like wisps of cotton spread across the night, dimming the stars, the moon no more than a sliver in the black. He puts his hands on the rail, grasping tight and closing his eyes.

When he saw Bahorel and Prouvaire rowing up to the _Liberte_ , he knew.

Joly had swooped upon Prouvaire in an instant, checking him for injuries and clucking with concern over the angry marks from the manacles, but Feuilly doesn’t think he’ll soon forget the look in his friend’s eyes, the light brown irises soaked with a mixture of grief and guilt.

_It’s not your fault Jehan_ , Feuilly whispered in his ear once he got the opportunity.

_They handed themselves over for me_ , Prouvare replied, grasping Feuilly’s hand.

_Javert and Enjolras’ father would have killed you if they didn’t do that,_ Feuilly reminded him.

_I know_ , Prouvaire answered. _I know._ _We have to get them back, Feuilly._

_We will_ , Feuilly had said. _And you’ll be at the front of the charge. I promise_.

A few minutes later Feuilly had found himself with Bahorel in the captain’s cabin, the sight of Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac’s belongings all scattered about made his chest ache.

It was the first time he’d ever seen Bahorel cry.

_They chained them, Feuilly_ , Bahorel said, tears spilling out of his eyes, and he’d done nothing to hold them back. _And there was nothing I could do. And then Enjolras ordered me away._

In that moment, all Feuilly could do was wrap his arms around Bahorel and let him cry on his shoulder.

_You’re not usually much of a hugger,_ Bahorel had remarked, pulling back, but still leaving a hand on Feuilly’s arm.

_We both needed it_ , Feuilly said, and a faint smile reappeared on Bahorel’s face _. I save them up, you see._

Feuilly shakes the memory from his head and opens his eyes, long dreadlocks brushing across his shoulders as the breeze blows through.

He has to tell Fantine. He has to tell Cosette. Someone has to tell Chantal.

Someone has to tell Valjean.

_He_ has to tell Valjean.

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, turning around and seeing Prouvaire standing behind him. Bahorel’s not with him, though he is only a few feet away speaking to some of the gun crew; Bahorel barely let Prouvaire out of his sight over their few days journey back to Nassau. He knew full well that Prouvaire was capable of protecting himself and he wasn’t injured, at least physically, but there were ghosts in his eyes, a melancholy that ran so deep Feuilly couldn’t see the bottom. He’d been alone with Michel Enjolras for a stretch, and it’s clear that conversation makes him worry for whatever their friends might experience at his hands. That Michel wanted to save them was clear, but what he would do to achieve it was something else.

“Are you all right?” Prouvaire asks.

Something about the words strike Feuilly; he, Bahorel, Prouvaire, Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire, and Gavroche have spent the last few days at each other’s sides constantly as their work permitted, taking care of each other in the absence of three of their own, but Feuilly’s been so concerned with everyone else he’s not sure anyone’s asked him that yet.

“I’m frightened,” Feuilly says before he can stop himself. “I’m not sure that’s suitable given I have to captain this ship until we get Enjolras back.”

“On the contrary I think fear is understandably a natural part of our lives,” Prouvaire says. “What matters is how we act on it.”

Feuilly nods, smiling weakly at Prouvaire. “I have to tell Valjean.”

Prouvaire doesn’t answer for a moment, taking both of Feuilly’s hands in his, searching his face, and something about his expression gives Feuilly his courage.

“I think you are best suited for it,” Prouvaire says. “There is no easy way to break this news, but you two are of the same mold, so I think once you’re there, you’ll know what to do.”

Feuilly nods, pressing Prouvaire’s hands tighter before calling out to the men, telling them to take an hour’s rest for food, after which they must all report back to the ship so that they might make the necessary repairs before sailing back out toward Kingston. Feuilly supposes he ought to call a vote, but none of the men have said a word, and dissatisfied pirates aren’t known for remaining silent. That they must sail out quickly seems without question. He watches the crew go their various ways, falling into step with Bahorel, Prouvaire, Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire, and Gavroche, heading toward Valjean’s house, _their_ house, running into Fantine, Cosette, Eponine, and Marius before they even reach the door.

The moment Fantine sees them, she knows something’s wrong.

She searches the group, noticing the three who are missing. Her eyes land on Bahorel, whose eyes are red, on Prouvaire, who keeps his trained on her but cannot quite make the words come out, then on Feuilly, who communicates what she already knows with his trembling smile, which falls off his face in a matter of seconds.

But it’s Gavroche who speaks the words.

“Enjolras’ father and Javert took Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac,” he says, standing up straighter as though it makes telling the news easier, his height at seventeen surpassing some of the adults around him. “We got back as quickly as we could.”

“What?” Cosette asks, wrapping her arm around Marius’ waist as he droops at hearing Courfeyrac’s name, her voice hollow with shock. “How?”

“In trying to get reconnaissance on Javert he got reconnaissance on us,” Prouvaire says, speaking up. “There was a battle, and he took me as a ransom, drawing us into a parlay. They only had four days to come to the meeting point, or…”

“They might have had you executed,” Fantine finishes, putting her hands on Prouvaire’s shoulders. “It’s not your fault Jehan. You’re an excellent pirate, but if you’d fought too hard you’d be dead. Please don’t blame yourself.”

“I know,” Prouvaire says, voice drenched with grief, yet there is hope lining the edges. “But I… Bahorel and I had to watch as they were taken away and there was just…there was nothing we could _do_. But I told Commodore Enjolras we were coming back for them, that we wouldn’t let this stand.”

Fantine looks over at Bahorel, fully understanding his red-rimmed eyes, the grin washed off his face entirely, and reaches out for his hand, holding it in her own.

“We’d hoped we could escape without them being taken,” Feuilly adds, suddenly feeling the need to explain their actions. “But the three of them knew they had a better chance of surviving in custody. And I knew we had to get back here as quickly as possible to find you and sail out.”

Fantine puts both hands on either side of Bahorel’s face for a moment, offering him a sad smile before letting go and turning toward Feuilly, her hands resting in the crooks of his elbows, looking him straight in the eye.

“You did the right thing,” she tells him, firm and without question. “There was no way to defeat that, strategically.”

“We fell into their trap,” Feuilly says, searching the ground for a moment before looking back up at Fantine.

“I think that was bound to happen,” Fantine says. “The only other option was never leaving Nassau. We are in their crosshairs, but that doesn’t mean they’ve won. René made the only choice he could. _You_ made the only choice you could. All of you did.” She pauses, anxiety sparking in her eyes. “I…I have to go speak to Chantal.” She searches Feuilly’s face again. “Are you all right to give Valjean the news? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I can do it,” Feuilly says. “Is he at home?”

“He is,” Fantine answers. “In his study.”

She runs an affectionate thumb across Feuilly’s cheek before beckoning Cosette and Eponine to come with her, while Marius follows the rest of them back to the house, where they all head toward the kitchen, saying they’ll eat quickly, alert the crew of the _Misericorde_ , and head back to both ships to get them underway. Bossuet catches Feuilly’s wrist before he heads up the stairs, a last gesture of encouragement. Feuilly knocks on the door to his uncle’s study, which is slightly ajar.

“Come in,” Valjean calls out, turning around and smiling when he sees his nephew. His hat sits on the desk, papers spread out in front of him. He remembers Valjean telling him he only read and wrote a little when he escaped from the _Orion_ with Fantine. There’d never been much need for it, though he’d taught himself the basics, expanded upon under Captain Myriel’s tutelage when he joined the older man’s crew. “Jahni,” he continues, rising from his chair and embracing Feuilly. “We were beginning to worry. What did you find out?”

Feuilly leans into the embrace, feeling the tears welling in his eyes, and when he pulls back no matter how hard he tries he cannot stop them from falling. He sees the night they first found Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac in the tavern in his mind’s eye, remembers how lanky they all still were, how desperate, but with a spark of fight in their eyes, remembers how kindred they felt to him, who wasn’t quick to trust. That night meshes with all the other memories, the laughter, the sea, the nights beneath the stars as they dropped bags of money at doorsteps, sharing a purpose. It meshes with the battles and the sounds of cannon fire and the smell of gunpowder as they built a new family together in the crew of the _Misericorde_ , and then the Liberte. He’d grown up with them. And something about standing here in front of his uncle, the first person who made him feel safe after the hurricane that stole his family from him and sent him tumbling into slavery, makes him lose his usual composure. He pushes the words out before Valjean speaks, shaky and shattered as they are, cutting his throat as they come forth.

“René, Frantz, and Auden have been taken,” he says. “By Commodore Enjolras and Javert.”

Valjean’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t look shocked, as Cosette had. Instead he looks like a man faced with one of his worst fears coming true.

“We encountered Javert,” Feuilly continues, thinking it’s best if he continues with all the needed information. “He must have heard word of our location before we heard word of his. He and Enjolras…well they shared words, I was witness to part of the confrontation.” He spares his uncle the visual of Javert’s sword up against Enjolras’ throat, and eventually, Courfeyrac’s pistol against Javert’s head. “Javert took Prouvaire as ransom and forced us into a parlay at the Grand Caymans. There was not time to come back and fetch you, or they might have killed Prouvaire. There were three of them and one of us and…” he trails off at seeing his uncle nod, understanding dawning in his eyes before he closes them briefly. When he opens them again he stares off into the distance, guilt creating a dark ring around the edges.

He lets go of Feuilly’s shoulders abruptly as though he feels he doesn’t deserve to touch them, stepping back and leaning on his desk for support, hands grasping the edges. Feuilly’s feels the absence of his uncle’s touch like a dull pain in his chest. He sees conflict arise in Valjean’s eyes, an argument between the man who blames himself and the man who took Fantine’s words with him after his own capture, unlearning old habits.

“It’s my…” Valjean begins, his gaze straightening out and landing back on Feuilly, his words halting when he sees Feuilly’s tears.

“Oh,” Valjean breathes, reaching out again for Feuilly and pulling him close. They usually show their affection in more subtle ways; a touch to the face, a clasped shoulder. It was more in their nature. But this is the second such embrace he’s shared with his uncle in recent weeks.

Civilization has arrived at their doorstep once again.

“I know I had to let you all go,” Valjean says, trying to believe his own words instead of finishing the _it’s my fault_ that was previously on his lips. “But I’m sorry you had to witness that. Is Prouvaire all right?”

“Physically yes, aside from some bruising from the manacles,” Feuilly tells him, pulling back again, but Valjean doesn’t let go of his arms. “But I think he blames himself, and he was alone with Michel Enjolras for a while, and I think that left its marks.”

Valjean tilts his head in question.

“He said Michel is desperate to save Enjolras and Combeferre,” Feuilly explains. “Though how he felt about Courfeyrac Prouvaire couldn’t gather. Their lives might be safe, but it doesn’t truly mean they’re safe in any other sense of the word. And the rest of us certainly aren’t. And then there’s Enjolras’ grandfather, who might have entirely different plans. And Prouvaire and Bahorel had to watch everything up close. He said it felt as if we were approaching the most decisive battle of a war.”

“I think he’s right,” Valjean says, releasing a short sigh.

“I don’t think you could have prevented this,” Feuilly says, filling in the blank spaces of his uncle’s words. “They were heartily determined.”

“And I am just as determined to get them back,” Valjean says, and Feuilly hears the anger brimming in his voice. It sounds dangerous, like an ancient curse rumbling up from beneath the ground, unleashed after centuries of waiting. Something in Feuilly solidifies at the sound, and though grief still sits sticky in his veins, determination floods through, breaking it up into smaller pieces.

_You do not know the crew with whom you are trifling,_ he hears Enjolras say to Javert before he stormed out.

He didn’t know indeed, Feuilly thinks. He feels something akin to a thunderstorm burst in his soul as he thinks of his friends assembled downstairs, of the two crews gathering at the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ , ready for whatever war this journey brought. He lets go of his uncle’s arms as the door behind them opens, his fingers feeling as if they’re full of lightning.

Both Valjean and Feuilly turn, seeing Fantine with Cosette, Eponine, Chantal, and Tiena in tow, the two older women now clearly filled in on the news. Fantine has her arm securely around Chantal’s waist; to Feuilly’s surprise Combeferre’s mother isn’t crying, but terror rests in her eyes. She was separated from her son for so long that Feuilly can only imagine how this must feel.

“Chantal and Tiena would like to set sail with us,” Fantine says. “I assume we’re leaving in the morning?”

“We should not wait any longer than that,” Valjean agrees before turning to Chantal and Tiena, reaching out for the former’s hand, which she takes, holding tight. “This is the most dangerous thing we have ever attempted,” Valjean says. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Chantal says without hesitation. “I want to be there when you get my son back. I couldn’t do anything else. I will not let them take Frantz from me. And René and Auden are like my other sons. I cannot stay back.”

Valjean nods, squeezing her hand before letting go. “And you, Tiena?”

“My son is part of the cause of this,” she says, and having seen Javert up close now, Feuilly sees how similar Tiena’s face is to her son’s, their gray eyes identical. “I do not pretend I have any sway with him anymore, but I…I feel compelled to come.”

“Eponine and I have volunteered to serve as their guards,” Cosette says, hand resting on the dirk strapped to her belt as she steps up toward Valjean, long curls braided back beneath her tricorn. Feuilly knows the look in her eyes well. “Mama has agreed to it, and I need you to do the same, Papa. Please let me do this. René, Frantz, and Auden are like my brothers.”

Valjean looks at her a moment, fear in his eyes. They flit over to Fantine, who looks back at him, clearly waiting for a response but not yet speaking.

“The only people as good with a dirk as Cosette is are on your own crew,” Eponine says, drawing Valjean’s gaze. “And together I’m sure we can keep ourselves, Chantal, and Tiena safe.”

Valjean studies Eponine for a moment, hat plopped down atop her long dark brown hair that turns auburn at the edges. She’s been a natural at this since she joined them, something she and her brother share in common. _None of this is safe_ , Feuilly knows his uncle wants to say, the words written across his eyes, which are still wet.

“All right,” Valjean finally says. “But I need you to show the utmost caution. And you must obey orders if a battle begins. You must promise me that.”

“Thank you,” Cosette says, leaning in to kiss Valjean’s cheek before smiling at Chantal and Tiena. She meets Feuilly’s eyes and he nods at her, feeling pride at her unquenchable courage.“And I promise.”

“Are the crews out at the ships?” Valjean asks Fantine.

“They will be soon,” Fantine answers. “I alerted some of the men I saw on my way, but both crews should be gathered within an hour. The _Liberte_ needs some repairs, but we can manage them by morning.”

“We leave at sunrise,” Valjean says. “If you would Fantine, tell our crew if any of them wish to stay behind they are allowed to do so. It is unorthodox to not call a vote, but we scarcely have the time, and I do not want to draw sailors into a battle they do not wish to fight. There will be no judgements.”

“No sailor on the _Liberte_ has expressed anything other than a desire to help,” Feuilly says. “I suspect the crew of the _Misericorde_ will be similar. We’ve assembled loyal crews, and they know how important this is.”

“You did an excellent job getting the _Liberte_ back here my boy,” Valjean says, says, squeezing Feuilly’s shoulder. “And I’m certain you’ll do just as well with this. We should get to the ships, and I need to check on Prouvaire, as well as seeing what came of his conversation with Michel Enjolras. Even under duress I have no doubt he gleaned information we might be able to use.”

Feuilly nods, grasping his uncle’s fingers for a moment before watching him fall into step with Fantine, their rapport as fluid and natural as ever.

As they walk back toward the docks Feuilly remembers a line from scripture. He’s never been religious, but when he was enslaved aboard that East India ship under Captain Anderson, the King James Bible was one of the only books on board, and certainly the only one his master let him get his hands on besides. So he’d read the entire thing multiple times, whiling away the hours at sea when he wasn’t set to work, usually by the starlight on deck at night, things finally quieted down around him. And now, a line from the book of Amos rings in his head, and the memory of it gives him confidence as he watches Valjean and Fantine stride toward the docks in front of him.

_The lion hath roared, who will not fear?_

And no matter the danger, no matter the risk, he thinks that soon, Michel, Javert, and anyone else standing in between them, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac will feel that roar reverberating in their bones, and then they will know what it is to fear not the darkness, but instead the blazing light.


	21. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel and Javert arrive in Kingston with the Trio and meet with Admiral Adams. Later, Astra is reunited with her son, making it clear to Michel how she feels about the situation. Courfeyrac finds out about his father's death. As the Misericorde sails toward Kingston, Cosette and Tiena Javert talk. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac are thrown back into the past they ran away from. Unable to face reality and desperate for an easy negotation with the admiral, Michel grows convinced Enjolras was driven mad by pirates, and calls a doctor in to examine him. Combeferre goes toe to toe with Michel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of notes on this chapter!
> 
> I make a reference to Bedlam, which was an mental asylum in England which was pretty much the furthest thing from pleasant, and they used to let people pay to see the inmates there. 
> 
> Also just as a side note, the journey from Jamaica to the Bahamas at the time took over a week, usually, so that's why you'll see days passing here. 
> 
> Also, warning for an attempt at bloodletting without consent in one of the scenes, if that's a squick/trigger for anyone.

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 5**

**Kingston, Jamaica.**

Javert leaves Anderson in charge of the _Chase_ once they reach the harbor in Kingston two days later, heading over to the _Navigator_ and toward the first mate’s cabin. As he approaches, keys in hand, he hears a voice behind him.

“Captain Javert, sir?”

Javert turns at the sound of the voice, seeing one of Michel’s men, William Prescott, standing a few feet away, hands folded and looking anxious. He’d sailed with Michel’s crew in some form since before Javert joined, and though he wasn’t a particularly talented sailor, Michel kept him on, likely due to his loyalty, Javert suspects.

“Something the matter, Prescott?” Javert asks.

“No sir,” Prescott says, looking hesitant. “It’s just…it’s not my place to ask, but I thought I might ask after what’s going to happen to young master Enjolras? A lot of the men who’ve been sailing with the commodore for a long time knew him as a boy were…well we all remembered him, you know. Running across the deck with his sword, playing by himself. Shy, he was, until you came about. And young master Combeferre.”

“René is no longer a child,” Javert says, turning away as Prescott’s words evoke memories he has no wish to entertain. “But I am not certain.”

Javert’s tone indicates the conversation is over, so Prescott walks away and Javert unlocks the door, closing it quickly behind him so Combeferre and Courfeyrac, weaponless as they are, can’t consider escape.

“Well if it isn’t the gallant naval officer himself,” Courfeyrac says as soon as he sees Javert. “Arrived to escort the villainous pirates.”

“Do be quiet Auden, or I’ll tell Commodore Enjolras to have you gagged until you are,” Javert says, moving to re-lock their manacles. “Be grateful you aren’t in the brig. Be grateful you aren’t immediately facing a trial or the noose.”

“Certainly something to be grateful for,” Combeferre responds, narrowing his eyes at Javert, but he doesn’t resist as Javert closes the manacles around his wrists, his words quieter but no less devoid of sarcasm than Courfeyrac’s, and far colder. “I’d ask if you were preparing the noose just in case, but I’m certain there’s something far more sinister up your sleeve.”

“Enough Frantz,” Javert orders. “You had best thank the stars that you’re in this position.”

“I can’t do that because I know why I’m in it and I know some of my friends won’t be so lucky, if you catch them,” Combeferre insists, and Javert ushers them out the door and toward the dock, where he already sees Michel and Enjolras waiting. “Anyone else who looked like me with my list of crimes? You’d be setting up my so-called trial as we speak. I’d be dead by sunset.”

Javert ignores him, walking behind as the sailors on the ship clear a path, staring, and some whispering under their breath. Javert’s grateful they arrived near nightfall or they’d no doubt have more bystanders gaping at them in the harbor. Enjolras pulls against his father’s grasp as they approach, and Michel barely fights him, letting go, and Enjolras steps toward Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks them, judgment in every crevice of his face as he looks at Javert.

“Back off René,” Javert says, putting a hand out, that familiar fear he’s felt ever since he saw Enjolras’ face that day pricking at his insides again. Fear of what he’s not entirely certain; fear of his own emotions toward the boy, fear of the boy himself, fear of the instability he senses in Michel, fear that he will displease his superiors, and if he listens to the small, quiet voices in the back of his head, fear of the choices they’ll ask him to make. He steadies his gaze, reminding himself that he is the upholder of the law, that _he_ is right, that René has grown rotten at the core.

_And what if Michel can’t save them_? that voice asks from the back of his mind, growing louder.

He smacks the voice metaphorically back, placing himself in the present.

 “You back off,” Enjolras says, still calm, but Javert hears the anger punching up beneath words. “You’ve captured me, the least you can do is let me speak to my friends. What difference does that make? You’ve kept me from them for days.”

“It matters because you are to do as your father says,” Javert snaps.

“You are not my keeper,” Enjolras protests. “You…”

“Enough,” Michel says, looking between the two of them. “This is not the place.”

“Is there any place?” Combeferre asks, his words coiled and threatening to strike. “Or are you just going to continue silencing us as you see fit?”

“Frantz,” Michel tries, reaching out toward Combeferre’s shoulder, but he steps back.

“No,” Combeferre says, and Javert sees something crumble in Michel’s expression, though he sets it right after a few seconds.

The sound of pointed footsteps derails any further conversation and Javert follows Michel’s gaze as he looks up, his eyes landing on Admiral Adams. The buttons on his immaculate blue coat gleam in the sunlight, and he stops in front of them, hands behind his back, frowning at the trio before looking back at Michel and Javert.

“You’ve arrived swiftly,” he says. “And successfully, I see.” He pauses again, surveying Enjolras. “Is this your son, Michel?” he asks. “The… _Avenging Angel_ , I believe is the name the papers have bestowed?”

“He is,” Michel answers, inching unconsciously closer to Enjolras. “It seems I should have listened to Captain Javert’s suspicions earlier.” He looks over at this son, stern, and Enjolras looks back, the anger and the pain and the desperation between them tangible. “But I did not want to believe the truth.”

"Javert is an excellent officer," Admiral Adams says, walking to stand in front of Enjolras. "I heard you were a trouble maker as a child. Seems you've taken that a bit further than expected. You and your crew have cost me sailors, interrupted trade routes, caused havoc, destroyed the fort in Port Royal and set free some of your fellow pirates. That, I believe, is the shortlist. I imagine you thought you were winning this war we’re having. But let me promise you I will make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Enjolras keeps his gaze down, and Javert sees the annoyance in the admiral's face, watching as he grasps Enjolras' face hard, forcing his gaze. Michel flinches behind him, hand reaching out before he pulls back, realizing himself.

"Care to tell me when Fauchelevent and his slave woman quartermaster might come for you?" Admiral Adams asks. “Or if they’re coming at all?”

Enjolras glares at him in response, silent.

"If we didn't need you to draw your mentor in, and if you were not connected as you are, if your father was not as upstanding a man as he is, I can promise that I would have had you hung in the harbor this very day, lad,” he says, letting go of Enjolras’ face. “I would suggest you not test me."

Michel flinches again, closing his eyes, and though the admiral doesn't see, Javert does.

“To think your father and Captain Javert invested such time and effort in teaching you,” the admiral says. “Only for you to throw it to such a sinister use.”

Enjolras bites his lip against a response and Admiral Adams leaves him, walking up to Combeferre, whose glare is just as potent.

"And Arthur Combeferre's boy," he remarks. "Another apple fallen from the tree, I see. Although I suppose Arthur did have... _marks_ on his record."

“Admiral," Michel interrupts, shorter than normal. "I was hoping to get two carriages back to my residence. I would prefer not to have passerby staring. I was thinking I might keep them locked there until we can...sort this out. And until my father in law arrives back."

"Of course," the admiral says, turning his gaze on Courfeyrac now. “Your father in law wrote to saw he would arrive in two to three days’ time.” He raises one eyebrow at Courfeyrac. “You’re the Courfeyrac boy, are you?”

“I’m not a boy at all,” Courfeyrac says, the only of the three of them to speak, the anger building through each of them and landing here, the words unavoidable.

“It’s a shame you act like one then isn’t it?” Admiral Adams says.

“If you’d call interrupting trade routes and causing damage to the business of the _great_ British Empire childish, then I suppose it isn’t a shame at all,” Courfeyrac says.

“Admiral?” Michel says, his timing impeccable as Javert sees his superior’s face redden at Courfeyrac’s words. “I’d like to speak a moment if you would.”

They set a few officers to guard the trio and step off to the side out of earshot.

“I was considering sending a few of my own men over to assist with the guard,” Admiral Adams says. “I know you have your own officers, but I would like some of my own as well. Stationed outside the house, most likely, with your own inside.”

“Yes,” Michel says, nodding. “My apologies for their behavior. I’m afraid I may have underestimated the extent to which my son, and in turn, Frantz’s mind have been warped by these pirates. I am not excusing his actions, but I…I am concerned for the state of his mind. He wouldn’t tell me exactly how they came into contact with Fauchelevent and Fantine.”

“You think perhaps they were coerced?” Admiral Adams asked.

Javert looks between them as they discuss, concerned for the tack Michel’s taking. It’s not his place to interfere if this assists with the deal Michel wishes to strike, but he does worry for Michel himself if he believes Enjolras was forced into piracy; Javert doesn’t believe that for a second, nor does he believe Enjolras is mad in the sense of the word Michel’s implying.

“I think the pirates who found them took advantage of who they stumbled upon and purposefully turned them against me, against Captain Javert,” Michel says. “Imagine, stumbling across René and Frantz and knowing the place from whence they came? Fiends like that aren’t going to pass up the opportunity. The boys were angry at me and I’m certain the pirates had no issue noticing that. I intend to have a doctor examine them, to see if there’s anything physical from which it stems or if it’s the terrible result of their time with these villains. Or perhaps both. I’m certain Auden fell under their sway as well. Frustrating as he is, his parents were respectable, and I’d hoped there might be a prison sentence for him in this, as opposed to execution.”

“Well something like that would make this simpler,” Admiral Adams says. “I have a great deal of leeway, but if I were to discuss with the magistrate and perhaps the governor, the idea of three young men from,” he pauses, eyes lingering on Combeferre. “… _mostly_ upstanding backgrounds driven mad by pirates…I’m certain it would assist in coming to an agreement more swiftly, it would help with the legalities in giving you custody of your son and Combeferre’s. It’s also something to tell the papers, you know. That sort of thing sells and in turn keeps them out of our business.”

“I understand,” Michel says, and Javert thinks he looks far paler than normal. A few feet away, Javert eyes the carriages approaching, two in total.

“Do you think Fauchelevent’s crew will come?” Admiral Adams asked. “Their arrests and subsequent sentences would help this along as well.”

“If I know anything of Fauchelevent and Fantine,” Javert answers. “They will come, sir. Just as they did before. They are arrogant enough to march right into the jaws of their enemies.”

“It would sate the appetite of the public if they were made an example of,” Admiral Adams adds. “And hopefully stamp out any sympathies, as well. Which have unfortunately been growing.”

“So they have,” Michel says. “But I agree, I suspect they will come. Before we depart, I’d just like to commend Nicholas. I wouldn’t have been able to capture the three of them without him.”

At this, the Admiral’s stoic expression breaks just a little, a smile peeking through, though there’s something in it that makes Javert uncomfortable, something he’s never truly felt in the man’s presence, as if he’s eyeing his favorite child but thinks he must vie for the child’s loyalty.

“I have no doubt,” the admiral says. “Javert is one of the best officers I’ve had in my career.”

“Sir,” Javert says, gathering his courage, a familiar burden weighing on his conscience. “I think that if we’re focusing on Fauchelevent here, if we’re thinking he might come to Kingston, I believe I should….”

“Tell me he’s actually Valjean, the man who escaped from you when you were a young East India officer?” Admiral Adams finishes for him, and Javert feels his stomach plummet to his feet. “I know.”

“You…know?” Javert sputters, a far cry from his usual grace.

“Baron Travers told me a few years back,” Admiral Adams informs him. “Thought I ought to know.”

“I know I should not have kept it from you, sir,” Javert says. “I understand if…”

“I will not be punishing you, captain,” the admiral says, holding up a hand. “You have dedicated yourself to capturing the man and his quartermaster, and have come closer than anyone else. There is not much else I could ask of any of my officers as competent as you. But I think we should agree that we will have no more similar secrets, hmm?”

“Yes sir,” Javert says with a firm nod.

After a few minutes Javert stands by as Michel puts the boys in the carriages with the help of some of his officers, Combeferre and Courfeyrac in one and Enjolras in the other. But even as he maintains a calm exterior, his insides spin around, making his nauseated.

Why would Baron Travers _do_ that?

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by the admiral’s voice, quiet and nearly inaudible if he weren’t standing close by.

“This is difficult for Michel, and understandably so,” Admiral Adams says. “But perhaps if the deal we make involves exiling them out of the region, it would be best. It keeps the brats away from our business; the Enjolras boy is dangerous in more ways than one. Perhaps leaving might even be best for Michel himself.”

“Sir?” Javert asks in question. He’s hardly focused on the idea that Michel could possibly leave Jamaica, and he finds he cannot consider the idea for long.

“He’s an excellent sailor, don’t mistake me,” Admiral Adams continues. “And it can only end positively for me if he and his father in law owe me a favor and this ends in capturing the rest of those damned pirate crews of Valjean’s, which might lead to the capture of even more. But I think Michel’s rather past his glory days. And when that happens, one should stop while they’re ahead, I believe. Besides, if he retired it might be time to say, give you a second ship of your own to go up against the pirate threat.”

“Oh,” Javert says, sifting through the words. “I’m honored you would even consider that sir.”

“It would be a great error to disregard the loyalty you’ve show to the Royal Navy,” Admiral Adams says. “And the talents you’ve leant us.” His eyes flit back over to Michel, who closes the doors to both carriages himself. “I’m trusting you to assist with the discretion of this matter; you know the Enjolrases better than anyone else, and it is nearly inevitable that word will eventually get out that the Avenging Angel is the son of one of the most powerful men in the Caribbean. Not to mention the grandson of the former governor, and it only adds to the heroic folktale legends the pirates like to cultivate. And I need that managed, you see. I need you to make sure Michel doesn’t make any…rash decisions.”

With that the admiral pats Javert on the back, his words laying thick in the air, and Javert cannot make sense of all the layers contained within them. Something about the possessive way the admiral grasped his shoulder as he walked away reminds Javert of his father, the way he’d assured Javert that he would be a thief, his fingers always lingering on his arm as if in challenge, as if he dared Javert to argue back. He watches his superior finalize plans with Michel for the guard, and Michel gestures at Javert to follow him into the carriage where Enjolras sits.

“I’m sure the two of you are pleased with yourselves,” Enjolras says, looking straight at them, but Javert notices the purple smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes.

“René,” Michel warns.

“What?” Enjolras says. “Do you think your disapproval is going to quiet me? You’ve kept me from Auden and Frantz for days and I haven’t…”

He trails off, not finishing the thought.

“You’re upsetting yourself,” Michel says, his tone far less angry than Javert expects, as if he fears Enjolras will shatter to pieces or go mad here in the carriage.

“Do not condescend to me,” Enjolras retorts. “It didn’t work when I was a child and it will not work now.”

“I am not condescending to you,” Michel says, slow with his words and Javert sees confusion flicker in Enjolras’ face. “I am asking for you to calm down for your own sake. I will not tolerate any of your violence here.”

“I do not make merry in my violence,” Enjolras says, hands grasping at the knees of his trousers. “But perhaps you should ask Javert about his own. Or did he neglect to tell you about the sword he put to my throat?”

“After you pulled your cutlass, absolutely willing to engage me,” Javert cuts in, feeling childish, but he cannot stamp out the urge. “Not to mention Auden placing a pistol to my skull.”

“You set our flag on _fire_ ,” Enjolras shoots back.

“Stop,” Michel says, looking overwhelmed by this sudden influx of information, but looking severe. “René, you will not taunt Nicholas. But I would bid you both to remember the past you share. To remember that you were once like brothers. That you loved one another.”

Michel looks at Javert first, raising his eyebrows, his eyes splintered with desperation when Javert looks close enough.

“Yes sir,” Javert finally says, thinking he’s used the old term far more since Enjolras stormed back into their lives than he has in years.

Enjolras doesn’t answer, shifting so he looks out the window, a faint melancholy in the lines of his face spreading with every second, though still there’s a soft light in his eyes, something Javert thinks remains unquenchable. He feels something growing in the pit of his stomach, something he remembers well from the days when he witnessed Baron Travers striking his grandson, but telling himself it was not his place to interfere, that the boy needed discipline. But still, there’s no mistaking the feeling.

Guilt.

* * *

**The Enjolras home. Twenty minutes later.**

Astra sees the carriages coming out the window of her bedroom, a book sliding from her hands and falling with a thud to the hardwood. She crumples the note Michel sent ahead in her fist, an eerie calm settling into her bones. She lifts her skirts, dashing down the stairs, emotions rent in half, conflicted.

She’ll see her son.

She’ll see Frantz.

But under these circumstances, under this situation she couldn’t prevent, even though she tried. She cannot forget the look on Michel’s face when she said she’d rather them be pirates than brought back here, but she will not regret them.

Oh, she hopes René doesn’t hate her. He’s not even in the door and all she imagines is holding him to her, no matter how tall, no matter how grown up, no matter that the papers call him the Avenging Angel, his sword cracking down upon his enemies like a lightning bolt.

She doesn’t care that he’s a pirate, if she’s honest, she thinks she’s proud of him for it, even if it takes some adjustment. She’s dreamt of Nassau at night, seeing the ocean rushing up toward the wild shores, leaving a golden cage behind her as she emerges from the water, hair flying loose in the breeze.

_It’s not lawlessness_ she wants to say to Michel. _They’ve created new laws. Better ones._

She thinks of the stacks of newspapers she keeps hidden in a locked chest in her armoire, stories of England’s loss of colonial control of Nassau, stories of Valjean and Fantine, and then, stories of the Avenging Angel, all telling the tale she was a part of, her chapter forced into secrecy, a prologue to the story that actually made the presses. How she longs to step into the light, her secrets out and her freedom given.

But she would let that go if it meant her son could go back where he belonged, and no matter what Michel thought, that wasn’t Kingston, it wasn’t Paris, it wasn’t London. It was Nassau.

Her heart smacks against her chest as the door opens and she rushes to the middle of the room, her steps freezing when she sees them in the doorway, Michel holding Enjolras by the back of his coat. Her eyes stick on her son’s face as if she can't quite believe he's real, years passing by within the seconds, feeling Enjolras’ fingertips brushing against her palm as she released his hand when she let the boys go,  the memory as real twelve years later as they were that night. She remembers grasping his jacket, an emptiness filling her up as soon as the material slipped her grasp.

_I promise. I love you._

_And I you.  Both of you. And that’s why I know I have to let you go. Go. Take care of each other. I’ll see you again one day. I swear it._

Her eyes trail down, seeing Enjolras’ manacled wrists and ankles.

"Michel how could you?" she breathes.

"Astra," he tries. "It's for his own protection as well as ours. You do not understand how dangerous..."

"Give me my son," Astra interrupts.

"Astra," Michel tries again, sounding strained.

"Michel Enjolras you are trifling with the wrong person, and you know it," she insists, voice frigid. "If you think he would hurt me you are a fool."

Finally Michel lets go, and Astra wraps her arms around Enjolras in an instant, though he cannot return the gesture with his hands as they are. She cannot even look at again yet, can only hold him as close as possible, touching him, making sure he’s real and not some figment of her daydreams.

"Mother," he says, soft. "I can't really..."

"Oh my darling it's all right, I can hug you enough for the both of us," she says.

Realizing how awkward the position is with their height difference and the manacles, she kneels down on the floor, her dress forming a circle of material around her, then helps him down, embracing him again and putting his head on her shoulder.

"My boy," she says, voice quaking with emotion. "My René. Oh, I'm so sorry they brought you here. I'm sorry."

He breathes in sharply at her words as if he cannot quite soak them up, and after a beat his shoulders start shaking, though his eyes are dry. She pulls back, gently putting her hands on his face, His eyes are as piercing as she remembers, the same color blue as the sea just beyond the shore, and although he certainly looks like Michel in some respects, she’s written all over him just as much.

“My beautiful boy,” she says, her own smile watery. “I love you.”

“And I you,” he says, the words in a whisper meant only for her.

She looks past his shoulder as Enjolras hears another set of manacles dragging across the floor.

“Frantz,” she says, voice splintering. She helps Enjolras up, not letting go of his hand as she embraces Combeferre, who leans into it, no doubt thinking of how his own mother will feel when she receives the news, a hand going to the back of Combeferre’s’ neck and toying affectionately with his curls. 

There’s the sound of Auden entering now, and Astra places kisses on both Enjolras and Combeferre’s cheeks before going over to embrace Auden. As the door shuts behind them, the guards exiting and leaving them with just Michel and Javert, Astra spins on her heel, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all standing behind her.

“Are you pleased with yourself Michel?” she says, and even though she doesn’t shout, her tone sounds deadly. “Are you _happy_ now?”

“Astra do at least think a bit better of me, will you?” Michel snaps. “I am putting all my efforts into saving their lives. I will sacrifice my job, I will sacrifice every last favor I’ve earned to do it.”

“I told you not to bring them here,” Astra insists. “I told you, and yet you’ve brought them here in chains.” She turns, focusing on Javert. "And you, you just couldn't let it go, could you?"

“Madam,” Javert says, and Astra hears impatience in his voice even as he remains polite. “I was doing my job.”

“Oh I’m so tired of hearing both of you talk about doing your job!” she says, finally raising her voice. “That’s all that’s ever mattered, I suppose, no matter the cost, no matter the destruction you’ve caused.”

“Astra,” Michel tries again, swiping his hand through the air.

“Do not Astra me,” she says, interrupting him. “Look what you’ve done, Michel. Take a look at your son’s face and tell me you think it’s right.”

Michel stares at her, breaths shallow until he speaks again.

“Nicholas,” he says, turning toward Javert. “Gather two of the officers outside and take the boys upstairs, put them in René’s room. I want two East India officers outside the bedroom door at all times. Admiral Adams will station men outside the window and outside the front door.”

“My room?” Enjolras asks. “I’ve never lived in this house.”

“Nevertheless, there’s a room for you,” Michel says.

“Oh well what a grand welcome,” Combeferre says, words cutting.

“This attitude doesn’t become you, Frantz,” Michel says, nodding at Javert, who opens the front door, gesturing two of Michel’s crewmen inside, ushering the trio upstairs, leaving husband and wife alone.

“No,” Astra says, calling up the stairs before she even thinks. “Don’t…”

“Astra,” Michel says yet again, taking a loose hold of her wrist, lowering his voice. “You’re going to upset them.”

“Upset them?” Astra says, pulling her wrist out of his grasp. “I think you’ve done a thorough enough job of that yourself. And you’ve brought soldiers into this house.”

“The only soldiers inside are my own officers,” Michel argues. “The naval officers will remain outside.”

“So you’ve turned our house into a prison?”

“It must be,” Michel says, a hiss of anger on his lips. “Or would you rather see them in a proper jail cell, which is where anyone else like them would be sitting right now?”

“Oh my god,” Astra says, turning her back and putting a hand on her forehead, fingers rubbing at the temples. “I cannot believe you have done this. I had thought….”

“What?” Michel asks, and she hears the curiosity in his voice. “You thought what?”

“That maybe, just maybe you were changing,” Astra says, turning back and facing him. “I thought I saw a fraction of that man I knew when he was younger who loved his son above all else. Who never in his darkest moment could have treated any child of Arthur Combeferre this way. Who had some kind of independent thought of his own.”

“They’re pirates!” Michel says, voice rising and cracking in the middle. “They have stolen, they have lied, they have become outlaws to the highest degree. They have killed people, Astra.”

“So have you,” Astra shoots back, feeling her hands shaking as the brush against her skirts. “How many pirates have you sent to the gallows, Michel? How many slaves have you transported that likely died of disease? You don’t get to decry their violence when it’s an answer to your own.”

“You do not understand,” Michel says, impatience in his tone.

“Because I’m a woman?” Astra says, voice rough with wrath now.

“That’s not…” Michel says, then changes the course of his words. “René is not well, Astra.”

“What are you talking about?” Astra asks.

“He’s been…driven mad by these pirates,” Michel says, and Astra hears his voice grow weak. “I’m certain of it. I’m going to have a doctor come in as soon as possible to examine him. And where he goes, Frantz follows. But I think they’ve all been affected in some way, taught by these fiends to hate me. To hate civilization.”

The memory of sitting on the edge of René’s bed, Fantine stepping inside the door, words shared between them more honest and intimate than any Astra shared with people she saw on a daily basis, floods her brain, vivid and full of color. She remembers the love buried deep in Valjean’s eyes; he might not have known it was there then, but from the stories she’s read, she has no doubt he discovered it within himself. She met them once, and yet they remained with her. She wondered about them, and they kept stepping back into her life; with Javert’s tutelage under husband, with her suspicions that her son was in their ranks all this time. She barely knows them and yet knows them intimately, and the word _fiends_ burns in the air, crumpling to ash at her feet.

“You are more lost than I thought,” she whispers. “And I think it’s because you were getting dangerously close to being found.”

She walks away from him without another word, heading up the stairs.

“Lost?” Michel asks, flabbergasted but following her.

“René isn’t mad,” Astra says. “And if you still think Frantz doesn’t have a very sharp mind of his own, then I don’t know what to say.”

“I have to save them Astra.”

“By doing what?” she says, whipping around on the stairs, immaculate hair coming loose around the edges, and Michel looks as if he fears her anger. “By locking René and Frantz up in rooms, sending Auden to prison, and the rest of their crews to the gallows?”

He swallows, looking guilty.

“It sounds despicable when you hear it aloud, doesn’t it?” she asks.

Another _they’re pirates_ dies on his lips, and she continues her climb up the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Michel asks, right behind her.

“To see my son,” she says, reaching the landing.

“Astra you cannot…”

“See my own child?” she responds. “Are you going to have your men point a bayonet at me to make me desist?”

He pauses, and she sees the tears in his eyes, but she’s far too angry for feeling sorry for him.

“No, Astra,” he says, an apology in his voice that he won’t speak aloud.

She stops on the landing, hand resting on the rail.

“You haven’t thought about this Michel,” she says, softening her voice but making her displeasure clear. “The things you’re planning…they could never forgive you for. You’re throwing away any chance you had.”

“We have to get them out of here, Astra,” he says, desperation in his tone. “It’s the only way.”

“My father is not going to let you whisk them off to Paris,” Astra argues.

“He’ll have to if that’s the deal I strike before he arrives.”

“Deals can be changed,” Astra says. “You know that. You know how fluid these things are when one has power, and if there’s one person in this situation who has more than you, it’s him. He’ll want them locked up in our house in London, where he’s nearby. Or worse, he’ll just make a new deal to keep them here. If we’re in Paris, we’re away from him. He won’t have that.”

“I have to try,” Michel answers. “If I can get the upper hand with Admiral Adams before he gets here…”

“Even if you did,” Astra says. “What would that leave you? With two young men whose lives you have stripped from them, whose friends you have jailed and executed?”

Michel looks at her, opening his mouth and closing it again, the answer lost. Astra contemplates him then huffs, turning on her heel and entering the room down the hall.

“Madam Enjolras,” Javert tries. “I’m not sure you’re…”

“Allowed?” she asks, finishing the sentence for him. “I’m not certain it’s your place to dictate where I’m allowed to be.”

The words make something flicker in Javert’s face, and he steps back, looking chastised, but she sees the anger brimming beneath the surface.

“Give us the room if you would lads,” Michel tells his two men. “But you’ll take the first watch outside the door.”

The officers close the door behind them, and Michel turns, pulling a key out of his pocket.

“I’m going to do undo your manacles,” he says, and Astra watches Enjolras’ face turn to stone at the hint of condescension in his father’s voice. “But if you act out, if you attempt any sort of physical violence, they go back on. And we’ve removed any such thing that might be used as a weapon, so there’s no sense in looking.”

“You underestimate us,” Courfeyrac says. “Maybe we don’t need weapons.”

Michel frowns at him. “Would you like them back on already?”

Courfeyrac falls silent at this and Astra watches Michel’s expression grown gentler, still looking at Courfeyrac.

“Actually, Auden, there’s something I need to tell you,” Michel says.

“Tell me?” Courfeyrac asks, and Astra sees anxiety bloom in his features.

Michel steps forward, surprising Astra by putting out a hand for Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“It’s bad news,” Courfeyrac says, stepping away. “And don’t pretend to like me simply because you have to tell me something difficult, it’s not becoming.”

Michel draws his hand back, but his voice remains kind. “I’m afraid I must give you the news that your father has passed away. In an accident on his ship. Your mother and younger brother have gone back to England to stay with her family.”

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says, sucking in a breath, and Astra watches as both Enjolras and Combeferre reach out for their friend’s sleeve, steadying him in one fluid movement. “I…when?”

“Just a few months ago,” Michel tells him. “I am sorry.”

Courfeyrac looks up at him, hands grasping the edges of Enjolras and Combeferre’s coats. He looks as if he might say thank you, but he holds the material tighter between his fingers.

“But not sorry enough to leave us be,” Courfeyrac says, and Astra hears an edge of danger in his voice, replacing the usual joyful, teasing lilt. “Kindly let me alone. Let _us_ alone.”

Finally, Michel relents, not fighting her when Astra says she’s staying. He had time with their son on the ship, she supposed, as forced as it was, so he won’t begrudge her this. Javert walks out without further glances, and Astra senses once again a conflict within him. Michel’s gaze lingers, but he exits the room without a word, shutting the door behind him and bidding the guard to lock it once Astra leaves. Astra waits until she hears Michel and Javert’s footfalls grow faint, still conscious of the two officers outside the door.

“Auden, darling,” Astra says, reaching out a hand and running a thumb across his cheek. He doesn’t step back from her touch as he did Michel’s. “I’m sorry about your family.”

“I…” Courfeyrac tries, tears slipping loose from his eyes. “René and Frantz have been my family more than they were but there was…there was a time when things were better.” He smiles at Astra as she pulls her hand away. “I assume my mother thought me dead?”

“I believe so,” Astra says.

“There was a time when I was close with my father,” Courfeyrac adds. “But…I’m afraid I’ll spend more time mourning for what could have been, rather than what was.”

She watches the three of them sit on the bed, Courfeyrac in the middle and Enjolras and Combeferre on either side, putting hands on their friend’s back in comfort.

“But you didn’t,” Enjolras says, and Astra hold onto the sound of her son’s voice. A light returns to his eyes as he speaks, and Astra feels a sheepish smile lift her lips upward.

“I just…I simply knew you weren’t,” she says. “And then, I confess, I put some of the pieces together.” She pauses, contemplating the three young men before her, an ache filling her that is both a relief at seeing them again, and a pain at seeing them here, away from the lives they’d built, away from the things she’d sent them toward when she let them go. “I’m sorry they’ve brought you here,” she continues, a variation on a theme of the words she spoke to Enjolras earlier. “I…I wish I could have done something to stop it.”

At this, Enjolras stands up again, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand before walking over to Astra again. He looks at her for a long moment, and she takes the opportunity to look back, truly seeing him for the first time in twelve years; his eyes are as blue as ever, his hair longer but still untamed, and he’s as tall as she predicted. There’s a kind of wildness in his demeanor even as she sees the marks of a soldier, perhaps even of a priest, as if Nassau, piracy, the life he led, let his spirit spill out into his face and the world around him. She waits, letting him make the first move. Free of the manacles he puts his arms around her, pulling her close. She returns the gesture, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he whispers in her ear, fearful the officers outside might hear. “For what you did for us.”

“I couldn’t do anything else,” she whispers back.

“And what you did for them,” Enjolras replies, and Astra knows exactly who he means. “I always suspected something, but when they told me it just all fell into place. You helped Fantine find her daughter. She found Cosette. And Valjean his lost nephew.”

“Oh,” Astra says, losing control of her voice now, and she feels Enjolras steady her. “I’m so glad.” She hesitates, wary of saying too much here. “Are they coming?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, lowering his voice even more, eyes flitting toward the door. He pulls back when they hear movement on the other side of the door, and Astra knows she cannot tell them what she knows of Michel’s plan until there is less danger of the officers overhearing them.

She reaches out to Combeferre, who also accepts her touch, and she realizes her fears of them blaming her were unfounded.

“These are not the circumstances I wanted to see you under,” she says. “But I am glad to see you. You’re the navigator aboard the ship, I expect?”

“I am,” Combeferre says, looking pleased, but she sees the exhaustion written across his face.

“A credit to your father’s legacy,” she says.

“We found my mother,” Combeferre tells her. “And although I can only imagine her worry right now, she’d be glad you were here.”

“You found her?” Astra questions. “Where? When?”

“Not too long after we met Valjean and Fantine,” Combeferre answers. “On an East India ship.”

“She had been sold into the slave trade,” Astra says, almost to herself. “But that’s something you do, finding slave ships and rescuing the slaves?”

Combeferre nods. “We find more success with ships that have smaller amounts of slaves onboard, but she was on one of those. She’s on Nassau now, running well, two businesses actually, with…” he looks over at Enjolras, letting him finish the sentence.

“Javert’s mother,” Enjolras says, whispering again. “Tiena.”

Astra’s eyes widen.

“The world is incredibly small,” she says.

“She was the first person we met on Nassau, properly anyway,” Enjolras says. “She helped us out of a bad spot.”

“Michel let slip that she came here,” Astra says. “He said Javert sent her away.”

“He did,” Enjolras says, eyes landing on the floor, but she sees the thoughts flowing across his face, even if she cannot read them. There’s a wistful quality to his voice, filled with sorrow for Tiena and his own sense of loss at Javert’s betrayal.

They settle after a short while, Astra sitting down in the chair next to the large bed and the trio on the edge of the bed facing her. Tension sweeps around the room, all four of them fully aware of the officers outside, but she asks the questions she can and they tell her about some of their exploits, on the friends they’ve met, filling in a few of the blanks of a life she has only pictured and guessed at. They tell her how they left Port Royal, Captain Barlow’s name a tattered whisper, and of sailing around the region until they finally hit Nassau. After a half hour, the exhaustion on their faces becomes evident, and after some convincing they lay down atop the covers, removing their boots but leaving everything else, their clothing an armor against everything they’re experiencing, tossed back into a past they ran away from. She almost suggests one of them take the chaise lounge in the corner, but stops at the looks on their faces; Michel must have separated them on the ship, she realizes, and thinks it might have been the first time in twelve years they slept apart. Their posture starts out stiff and watchful and wary, as if they cannot trust their safety in sleep.

_I won’t let them hurt you_ , she wants to say, but she can’t, and she feels tears pushing up again, clearing her throat against them, holding them in until she’s alone because they’ve been through more than enough in the past few days. She watches Combeferre and Courfeyrac relax under her gaze, eyes falling closed. Courfeyrac lays sandwiched between the other two, Enjolras laying closest to her. His eyes remain open, and she reaches over, brushing a hand against his cheek. He’s a fully grown man, a pirate, a _captain_ , but here in this room, what he is most of all is her son.

“Please sleep René,” she says. “At least for a little while.”

He smiles at her, eyes finally closing. She remains in the chair for another fifteen minutes or so, eyes memorizing them, wishing they might remain like this until she could find an escape for them. The scene breaks when the door opens, revealing Michel.

“Oh,” he says, keeping his voice low. “You got them to sleep. René barely would on the ship.”

“What do you want Michel?” she asks.

“To talk to you,” Michel says. “Would you come out please?”

Astra rises from her chair, quiet and hoping they’ll remain asleep, closing the door carefully behind her. She and Michel walk down the hall and away from the officers, stopping in front of her bedchamber door.

“Astra,” Michel begins, and the words tire her already. “This would be a great deal easier if I had your support. You have sway with them that I…”

“Don’t deserve?” she cuts in.

“I know I have hurt them,” Michel says. “I’ve hurt them many times.”

“I’m glad you finally admit it.”

“But I’m right here,” Michel says. “They are criminals, Astra. I have done wrong against them, but that does not make this right. I can get us out of here. Isn’t that what you want?”

“I told you what I wanted Michel,” Astra says, hand resting on the doorknob. “You cannot act as if this is the same as it was twelve years ago. You say you’re putting them first? But you’re not. You’re putting your guilt first.”

“Would you rather see them sent to the gallows?” he asks, voice cracking at the words.

“Of course not,” she says, sharp. “But that would not even be an issue if you _hadn’t brought them here_.”

“Astra,” he tries, and she thinks she hasn’t heard her name so many times at once in her entire life.

“I’m going to lay down,” Astra interrupts. “But if there are parts of your plans for this precious deal you’re planning you haven’t told me when I awake, you will tell me what they are.”

Michel frowns, anger flickering in his eyes in uncanny resemblance to their son. But she closes the door without another word, leaving him standing alone in the hallway.

* * *

**The Misericorde. The Caribbean Sea.**

Cosette stands near the bow of the ship, looking across at the Liberte sailing beside them. Normally she hears laughter from the decks, sailors spread out across, engaged in their work and happy in their brotherhood of pirates. No matter how hard the sun beat down, no matter how harsh the storm, there was determination. There was joy. But today the quiet sounds loud for the absence of working songs, from the absence of the captain, quartermaster, and sailing master, an ache emanating throughout the entire crew. Feuilly spies her looking and waves from his position on the quarterdeck. Even from here she sees he hasn’t slept well. He’s tied his dreadlocks back in Valjean’s fashion where he normally leaves them down, and combined with the worried look on his face, he looks even more like his uncle than usual. She waves back and he turns away a moment after, drawn into a conversation with Bahorel, whose anger she feels from here; Michel and Javert certainly made a mistake underestimating him. Her eyes run over the deck, landing on Grantaire, who stands alone against the rail like her. He doesn’t see her, his eyes looking out at the horizon beyond, though it doesn’t seem as if he sees that either. She watches as he takes his hat off, clenching it in one hand and running the other over his dark brown curly hair, which he keeps short. There’s more growth on his face even than usual, and though she’s seen plenty of melancholy in his face when he thought no one was looking, she’s never seen such shadows in his expression before. Sensing someone’s eyes on him he looks up, a slight half-smile on his face, and he nods at her. She waves back, turning around at the sound of someone’s voice behind her.

“Cosette dear, are you all right?” Tiena asks, bringing that ever present sense of mystery along in her wake.

“Oh, Tiena I didn’t see you,” Cosette says, turning around, putting a hand on her chest in surprise.

“Your reflexes are usually fast,” Tiena remarks.

“Don’t worry,” Cosette assures her. “I’ll still be able to protect you if it comes to that.”

“I’d never doubt it,” Tiena says, offering her a small, unsure smile. “I trust your skills entirely. Besides, I’m a bit scrappy myself, still.” The smile grows, holding a bit of an amused smirk within it, and Cosette feels her own lips tug upward. “But I’m sure your mind is a bit muddled.”

Cosette nods, gazing at Tiena for a moment before deciding on her words. “I…” she pauses, careful. “I’ve never met your son, though I’ve seen him from a distance. Yet he’s been a strange part of my life for a long time. This person hunting my parents. Hunting René and Frantz and Auden. I’m afraid of him, if I’m honest, but I’ve also seen the look in René’s eyes sometimes, when he talks about him. An old fondness. A softness. A belief in him. I’ve seen a variation in Papa’s eyes, too. And well. In yours.”

The question rests within her words without speaking it aloud, and Tiena’s smile grows sad.

“I don’t know what Nicholas will do,” she answers. “I wish I did. I wish I could predict, because then perhaps I could help protect those three young men. But as it is I can only guess based on how he was as child, mixed together with the things I know of him now.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Cosette says, gentle with her words. “Why did you want to come?”

“I have not allowed myself many friends outside the other Romani women on Nassau,” Tiena explains. “After my husband died, and then after I was separated from Nicholas I couldn’t give much of myself anymore. I find it difficult in the first place, which I think is part of what so drew me to helping you and your family where I could over the years and now. You’ve been through so much, and yet are so open. I admire it a great deal. And Chantal’s become my friend as well, and the fact that she’s been separated from her son because of my son…I couldn’t stand aside knowing that.”

Cosette smiles at her, reaching out a tentative hand and squeezing Tiena’s briefly before letting go, sensing there’s more.

“And I…sensed something the night I saw him again a few years ago,” Tiena continues. “He stands firm in his place, in his code, but still there was a small piece of something I saw. He loves Michel Enjolras, and no matter what he says, he loves René, too. And I think a small part of him still loves me. He wouldn’t have reacted the way he did if that weren’t true. It was as if he wanted to turn himself to stone, but that cannot hold forever. And I thought perhaps if he saw me here, even if it didn’t change him immediately, perhaps it would help remind of his past. Perhaps it would teach him not to be ashamed of it.”

Cosette nods, understanding. “When René speaks of him I hear anger but I also hear this kind of…grief.”

“I think René cannot do anything but hope he’ll change,” Tiena says. “I think it’s against his nature to do otherwise, even as they inevitably fight. I see a bit of that in Valjean too.” She pauses, looking hesitant, a question on her lips.

“You can ask me anything,” Cosette says. “I don’t mind.”

“When you were separated from your mother,” Tiena asks, wincing at the words. “Were you angry at her?”

“I was so young when it happened that my memories of what happened are blurry,” Cosette explains. “They don’t solidify really, until a few months after I was taken to the Thenardiers. But my memory of my mother was so strong, the image of her. It wasn’t really anger, it was wondering why she’d left me.”

“Did you think she did purposefully?” Tiena asks.

Cosette shakes her head. “Well, not usually. My memories of her were always light and warm, so in contrast to the Thenardiers, that I knew something had torn her away from me. Though sometimes at night, when I was very lonely, I did wonder. I did feel angry. But growing up as a slave like that, even if I was too young to fully understand everything, I knew something similar happened to my mother. That we were not granted the same rights as the white Europeans. But when she found me that day with Papa…it was the happiest I’d ever been.”

Cosette watches Tiena’s smile grow shaky now, eyes growing moist. “Your mother is an excellent woman,” she says. “Truly.”

“She is,” Cosette says, considering for a moment before reaching out, grasping Tiena’s arms with both her hands. “I know your son rejected you when you found him,” she begins. “But please don’t think that’s because of something you did. Parents make mistakes, I know, and some are deserving of that sort of rejection he gave you. But you aren’t, you searched everywhere for him, demanded nothing of him when you found him. You didn’t let him go voluntarily in the first place. And I think part of him knows that’s true. I think he’s so afraid of so many things that it dictates all the decisions he makes, and that’s caused him to treat you that way.”

“Thank you, Cosette,” Tiena says. “I do appreciate that. We wandered so much when he was a child, both because we wanted to but also were not left with much choice at the same time. I often tried to at least get my husband to remain on a single crew, but sometimes even the pirates in those days would kick us off. And Nicholas is much more like me than he ever was his father. They never really got along. I know I made mistakes, but…” her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “I loved him. Even if he’s forgotten. I never wanted him unhappy or hurt.”

“I know,” Cosette says, sincere. “I know you do.”

“Thank you for listening to an old woman,” Tiena replies. “You are a brave, beautiful girl.”

Cosette smiles, a thought occurring to her.

“May I?” she asks, stepping forward, her arms out.

“Of course,” Tiena answers, letting Cosette embrace her, and Cosette can tell by the way the older woman returns the gesture that it’s been a long time since someone hugged her, by the way she stiffens before melting into the touch. After that she’s gone, and Cosette’s only alone for a minute or two before she hears footsteps behind, her mother’s familiar arms wrapping around her waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder.

“All right, my darling?” Fantine asks.

“I will be,” Cosette says, firm. “When we get them back. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened of what’s to come, but I trust in us. Especially in you.”

Fantine kisses her cheek at that, holding her closer. “I was talking with Valjean about our plans for arrival.”

“What did Papa say?” Cosette asks.

“We’ll take a small shore party, perhaps send someone out the evening before as a scout, and wait until cover of night to make our move. But we’ll need a good amount of people here on the ships at the ready.”

“Who’s going ashore?”

“Not entirely sure yet, but Valjean, me, Jahni, and Bahorel for certain. Possibly Prouvaire, but he may captain the _Liberte_ in Jahni’s absence. If you’re up for the task, we’d like you to take charge of the _Misericorde_. Marius and Gavroche have agreed to assist Eponine with protecting Chantal and Tiena if you grow too busy.”

“Auden and I taught Marius a good few things with the dirk,” Cosette says, feeling a grin on her face. “But yes, I’m up for the task.”

“I love you,” Fantine says in response. “So much.”

“I love you too,” Cosette replies, bumping her hip against Fantine’s in affection. “How many days left on the journey?”

“Four, perhaps five,” Fantine answers. “The wind is picking up, but the first few days were middling.”

“Do you think they’re all right?” Cosette asks, giving into some of the images circulating in her mind once she heard the news.

“I think they’re alive,” Fantine says, frowning. “I believe we can count on that. Whatever else happens, we’ll be there to help, because we are not leaving without them.”

“No,” Cosette says, leaning her head against her mother’s, eyes scanning the horizon, the stronger winds blowing more confidence into her. “We’re not.”

* * *

The **Enjolras Home. Kingston, Jamaica.**

Enjolras tenses when he hears the door open.

They’ve been in the house for two days, and he tenses every time he hears it open, and it only ever melts away when his mother enters.

This time however. it’s Javert.

“With me, René,” Javert says without preamble.

“Where are you taking us?” Combeferre asks.

“Not you, just René,” Javert answers.

“Where are you taking _René_?” Combeferre asks, stepping up as Javert takes hold of the sleeve of Enjolras’ coat.

“To the next room over, Frantz,” Javert says, annoyed. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Combeferre laughs, the sound bitter and sardonic, and Enjolras closes his eyes a moment, remembering Combeferre gathered with Joly and Prouvaire around the growing sea grape plant outside the house in Nassau, now turned into a small tree, moving his hands enthusiastically as he spoke of all its uses.

“There is everything to worry about in this house,” Combeferre retorts. “Everything to worry about with a man like you taking René out of our sight.”

“My but you’ve developed an unfortunate attitude over the past twelve years,” Javert says, pulling Enjolras toward the door.

“Or perhaps you like to remember him as more subservient to you than he ever was,” Courfeyrac answers, narrowing his eyes. “And I’m afraid we don’t owe you a pleasant attitude.”

Javert huffs, hauling Enjolras out the door and closing it behind him, leading him down the hallway.

“Taking me somewhere they can’t hear me scream?” Enjolras asks moving out of Javert’s grasp as soon as they step inside the new room, seeing a new set of clothing laying on the bed; simple black breeches, white shirt, and black jacket.

“Good lord you are dramatic,” Javert says. “Change,” he says, pointing at the clothes on the bed.

“Why?” Enjolras asks.

“Because your clothes are filthy,” Javert says, wrinkling his nose. “And because I’m telling you to do so, at the behest of your father.”

“You know me well enough to know that’s not a compelling reason,” Enjolras says. “You also know that if we were anywhere besides trapped inside this house, you would stand a very good chance of losing to me in a fight.”

“Is that a threat against my life?” Javert asks, sound unperturbed, but Enjolras sees something flicker in his eyes.

“No, Javert,” Enjolras says, hearing the vulnerability in his own voice. “It’s simply a reminder that I am no longer a boy you can attempt to cage. You wouldn’t have called me a monster if you didn’t believe me dangerous, now would you?”

“Change,” Javert says, gritting his teeth. “Or it will be done for you.”

Enjolras walks over to the bed, hand running over the material of the shirt.

“And how do you feel about all of this?” Enjolras asks, hearing his six-year-old self in his voice. “Or would you rather see me at the end of noose, as the law dictates?”

Javert looks at him, a flash of his younger self in his features before turning away.

“Change, René,” he says, marginally less harsh than before. Without another word he closes the door.

Enjolras changes because he knows the threat of having it done for him is real, though he slides his red coat back on over the shirt and breeches, ignoring the black jacket left out for him, sitting down on the edge of an armchair. He turns when he hears the door open a few minutes later.

"René," Michel chides as he and another man step inside. "I sent Javert to ask you to change out of your clothes.”

"I did as you requested to avoid having it done for me," Enjolras says, gesturing at his clothes folded at the end of the bed.

"You're still wearing your coat."

"It is _my_ coat," Enjolras replies. "Given you’ve imprisoned me here, I assumed perhaps wearing it was not a great deal to ask."

"You're very attached to the coat," the other man observes. He has a medical bag similar to Joly's, though far less beaten up from years at sea.

"This is Doctor Williamson," Michel explains. "He was our doctor in the last few years in Port Royal, if you’ll remember, and recently relocated here. I thought it might help to have someone familiar."

"I'm not ill," Enjolras says, tone flat, but nerves prick at the center of his stomach, spreading outward.

"We’ll see," the doctor responds. He gestures toward another chair. "Might I sit, commodore?"

Michel nods, and the doctor pulls up a second arm chair, settling it across from Enjolras’.

"Dare I ask what exactly is going on?" Enjolras says, watching as his father goes around behind him, resting his hands on his shoulders, the touch heavy.

"Just asking you a few questions to ascertain your mental state," Doctor Williamson answers.

"My _mental state_?" Enjolras asks, feeling his breath stop short.

"An intelligent, talented young man from an excellent family who runs away and proceeds to become a pirate?" the doctor says, pulling out a sheaf of parchment. "It begs the question of causation. It begs the question of whether or not you were coerced. Besides, the physical conditions you were living in, well. I’m sure that did bodily damage as well.”

"I made choices," Enjolras insists. "Did my father bother telling you why I ran away?

"I am fully aware of past events," the doctors says. "But your time with these pirates has no doubt affected your mind, and as I said, the physical conditions. Both could have given you an illness."

"What sort of illness?" Enjolras asks, his father's hands growing heavier on his shoulders.

"A case of melancholia perhaps," the doctor says. "Sometimes people become violent toward themselves and others when afflicted severely, suffering from delusions of grandeur in order to escape it.”

"So you don't think I'm possessed then?"

"Son, please," the doctor responds. "Decent, modern men of medicine have moved beyond that."

"But not beyond allowing people to pay to see mad people in Bedlam?" Enjolras asks. "Is that my fate?"

"Don't be foolish René," Michel says. "Your care would be given at home."

"My _care_?" Enjolras says. "This is part of what Admiral Adams needs from you to secure the deal you seek, isn't it?" Enjolras asks. “To make out that I was kidnapped by pirates? That they drove me mad?”

"We can discuss this later," Michel says, firm.

"You have been captive with these pirates for so long that you are no longer able to recognize it as such," the doctor says. "You think they actually care about you. They don't. It’s nothing but a trick to turn you against your father. Against decent society."

"Get out," Enjolras says, shaking with anger.

"René," Michel says, letting go of Enjolras' shoulders and going around to the side of the chair. "Please let this man help you."

Enjolras turns, glaring at his father.

“I am not mad,” Enjolras says and Michel jerks back at the severity in his son’s expression, cold fury written into every crevice of his face. “You’re trying to convince yourself I am because that’s easier than facing every truth you’ve ever run from.”

"I'm here to help you, René," the doctor says. "So that perhaps one day you might recover from this ordeal. From these violent actions. But it will take time for treatment. And it will be easier with your cooperation."

"You’re only saying this because of my lineage. Otherwise I'd have been executed already. Or you'd have waited to see if Valjean and Fantine arrived and then done the deed if they didn’t show up. Or after they did, if it failed."

"You seem to have a preoccupation with dying," the doctor points out. "Have you considered committing suicide, René?"

"No," Enjolras says. "But if I had, I don't suspect treating me this way would be a great deal of help."

"Suicide is one of the gravest sins," Doctor Williamson says.

"I thought this no longer had anything to do with religion," Enjolras shoots back.

"Well I don't believe you're possessed but your time with these fiends has twisted your morals and weakened your mind and body, making it prone to illness. So it wouldn't surprise me if you'd considered such a thing."

“Are you going to treat Frantz like this as well?” Enjolras says, accusation in his voice as he looks at Michel. “And Auden?”

“I am certain Frantz simply followed in your footsteps,” Doctor Williamson answers. “He was affected by the events of course, but it is only natural law that his mind is…weaker than yours by default, given his mother’s lineage.”

Enjolras pushes forward out of the chair, held back by Michel, his words interrupted by noises outside the door. Enjolras hears Javert's voice, low and frustrated but still respectful. Then he hears another voice. His mother, who is much louder.

"You coward," he hears her say.

“Madam,” Javert says, swiftly losing patience. “Commodore Enjolras has said you are to be barred from the room for your own good and for your son’s own good. I cannot let you in.”

“Excuse me?” Astra says.

“Do not let her in,” Javert says to someone Enjolras assumes is another officer. The door opens and Javert steps in, slamming it closed and locking it behind him.

“Michel!” Enjolras hears his mother shout from the other side.

Michel shuts his eyes but doesn’t respond, and Enjolras’ hands clench around the edges of the chair.

“What are you going to do to me?” Enjolras says, cutting the fear out of his voice, but he feels the apprehension rush through him.

“We aren’t doing anything to you René,” Michel says, that strange gentleness in his tone again. “We’re letting the doctor treat you.”

“I’m not _mad_ ,” Enjolras insists, watching as the doctor pulls a lancet, cup, and tourniquet out of his bag, the tools of bloodletting. “Javert doesn’t believe I am either, he just won’t say so because he doesn’t dare step on your authority.”

They ignore him, and both Michel and Javert take him by the sleeve, leading him over to the bed.

“I need you to cooperate René,” Michel pleads. “This will be easier if you just cooperate. You have been bled before when you were ill, this does not have to be an ordeal.”

“I am not _ill_ ,” Enjolras says, thrashing against them as they forcibly remove his coat, tossing it over the chair he just occupied. The doctor rolls up his sleeve, and Enjolras pulls his other arm out from his father’s grasp, narrowly missing Michel with his elbow as he feels his father’s hand press against his chest.

“We are not trying to hurt you, René,” Doctor Williamson says, backing away slightly, out of reach of Enjolras’ swinging arm.

“Nicholas, your assistance please,” Michel says, gesturing Javert over, moving his hand from Enjolras’ chest to his shoulder, pushing it down against the bed.

Javert comes over, reaching down and placing both hands around Enjolras’ forearm, grasp like iron.

Enjolras goes stock still, shaking his head as Javert’s face merges with his grandfather’s, and suddenly he’s twelve years old again, hands grasping his wrist until it felt like it might break, fingers pushing into his forearm until it bruised. Michel’s eyes move from Enjolras’ face to Javert’s grasp on his forearm, realizing why his son stopped fighting.

“See?” Javert grumbles, though he looks confused, his eyes not following the same path as Michel’s. “It’s much easier if you hold still.”

Javert meets Enjolras’ gaze and for the first time, Enjolras cannot hold the look, feeling his breath grow sharp in his chest, more rapid, shallower than before. His eyes focus on Javert’s hands grasping his forearm tight to the point of pain, remembering a memory from years ago, of Javert adjusting his grip on the court sword one day not too long after his grandfather bruised his arm, remembers Javert’s hand on his forearm as he showed him the correct stance, moving it upward at Enjolras’ flinch, responding to his charge’s anxiety about being touched there. Now Javert’s eyes follow Enjolras’, looking down at his own fingers pressing into the skin before glancing back up at Michel, whose own grip grows looser, conflict and guilt sitting heavy in his face.

“There,” Doctor Williamson says, stepping forward again. “Now this will feel like a sharp pinch.”

But before he can push the lancet into Enjolras’ vein Javert lets go of his arm, eyes closing as he shakes his head.

“Captain?” the doctor questions. “I think you’ve let go a bit prematurely.”

“That’s enough,” Michel says, abrupt, letting go as well, looking down at his own hands as if they’ve committed a sin.

 “Commodore,” Doctor Williamson argues. “We need to begin this treatment. You were beside yourself with worry this morning over it.”

“I said that’s enough for today,” Michel snaps. He’s practically glowering now, and the doctor shrinks back. “We will continue at a later time. But what I need from you is to sign a paper saying that the three of them show signs of having been coerced into piracy, that they are unwell. Can you do that?”

“Yes sir,” Doctor Williamson says. “I can.”

“Don’t behave as if this wasn’t your idea,” Enjolras says, hearing his voice shaking, though a sense of clarity re-establishes itself. “You don’t get to be…to be angry at the result.”

“René I’m…”

“Save your breath,” Enjolras says, nausea growing in the center of his stomach. “Take me back to Frantz and Auden.”

Michel makes to take him by the sleeve and Enjolras pulls his arm away. To his surprise, Michel doesn’t fight him. He takes his coat off the chair, following his father into the hallway. When the door opens, they’re met with Astra’s face, the anger in her eyes crashing down in waves and flowing through the rest of her face.

“How dare you?” she says without ceremony. “Of all the things you’ve done, I never expected you to bar me from my own child. That, I thought was beneath you.”

“I am trying to help him, Astra,” Michel says. “Just…wait here. I’m taking him back to Frantz and Auden.”

Astra opens her mouth, prepared for an argument, but when she sees Enjolras’ expression she backs down, reaching out and squeezing his hand before he goes back down the hallway with his father. They step past the officers guarding the door, and they’re barely inside the room before Combeferre steps up, a cold, calculated rage in his eyes.

“What did you do to him?” he asks, surveying Enjolras, who steps closer to them, feeling Courfeyrac’s arm slide around his waist.

“Frantz, please,” Michel pleads.

“I am asking what you did,” Combeferre says, all traces of his usual awkward gentleness vanished, and Enjolras thinks Combeferre’s words could draw blood. “And I think after all your failures, you owe me an answer.”

“Trying to save your lives,” Michel says, harsh now. “Something for which I never expected any of you to be so ungrateful.”

“You still aren’t answering,” Combeferre says, stepping just in front of Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

“René isn’t well,” Michel says, looking afraid now in the face of Combeferre’s anger. “None of you are. You have been coerced by these pirates. I had a doctor come in to examine René, and he agreed.”

“Because you made him do so, I expect.”

“This requires treatment,” Michel insists.

“You tried to bleed him against his will,” Combeferre says, eyes catching on Enjolras’ rolled up sleeve, searching for a wound but finding none, and his gaze softens a mere fraction as he looks back at Michel. “You think we’re mad. You really do, don’t you?”

“It’s the only explanation,” Michel says, and to Enjolras’ ear it sounds as if he’s starting to disbelieve his own theory. “For the crimes you have committed, for the lives you lead, for the violence you enact.”

“Violence,” Combeferre says, running a hand over his face in frustration. “I keep hearing about our violence. But you never talk about yours.”

 “Mine?” Michel asks, and it’s the first time Enjolras thinks he’s heard his father take this angry of a tone with Combeferre.

“Those slaves on your ship that night we discovered them,” Combeferre begins. “God knows how many you’ve transported since then. That’s violence. What you just tried to do to your own son. That’s violence. We understand the necessity of our own. But you won’t admit the oppression of yours.”

“Enough,” Michel says. “For such a smart lad you are utterly unreasonable. You aren’t the boy I knew.”

“And you aren’t the man I thought you were,” Combeferre answers.

Michel flinches but doesn’t respond, turning toward Enjolras again.

“René, I….” Enjolras watches his father struggle with the apology, so out of place in this scenario. “I know your arm is…”

“He’ll be fine once you leave,” Courfeyrac interrupts, holding Enjolras tighter.

Michel looks at Enjolras, who looks back, but finds he cannot respond, exhaustion pushing its way into his body; he wants to speak, he wants to tell his father exactly how he feels about what just happened, about all of this, but the memories of the past few days overtake his brain in flashes of sound and color, loud, overly bright, and dissonant. He feels jumbled, slow, the ghost of Javert’s hand still squeezing his arm too tight, the feeling of his father pushing him down against the bed, guilt in his eyes, but still insisting his entire life was a case of madness, that the love he experienced all these years from his friends, from his _family_ , wasn’t real.

“In the morning we’ll be asking you some questions about Valjean and Fantine,” Michel says, but the harshness in his voice sounds forced, as if he feels it’s how he’s supposed to sound but can’t quite manage it entirely. “So I suggest you be ready to answer them.”

With that he’s gone, shutting the door behind him, and though Enjolras expects a slam, there isn’t one.

“Sit,” Courfeyrac says as soon as Michel leaves, keeping a hold of Enjolras’ waist until he places him on the edge of the bed.

“They didn’t bleed you?” Combeferre asks, gentle again now that Michel’s gone, ascertaining the facts as he and Courfeyrac sit on either side of him.

“No,” Enjolras says, his voice growing husky, feeling the tears create pressure behind his eyes. “They were pushing me down on the bed and Javert grabbed my forearm and…” he gestures with his hand. “Then they both let go, ordered the doctor to back down. I admit, that surprised me.”

“Guilt,” Courfeyrac says, covering one of Enjolras’ hands with his own. “But not enough to stop what they’re doing. But it may serve us well if they’re feeling that way.”

Enjolras closes his eyes, feeling tears slip out, running hot down his face. He doesn’t want this…he doesn’t…he’s the _captain_ , and this is no doubt a battle.

“I’m sorry,” he says, breathing in, pinching the bridge of his nose, but he cannot stop the flow.

“René,” Combeferre says, putting a hand on the side of his face, and Enjolras remembers a night like this in the house in Port Royal, the first time he truly cried after his grandfather struck him. “You need not be sorry with us. Getting caught was terrible enough, but in this situation, faced with the past like this…”

“You have that too,” Enjolras argues.

“So I do,” Combeferre says, running a thumb across his cheek and swiping away some of the tears. “But I cried my tears on the ship when you were separated from us. It’s all right for you to cry yours now.”

“Hear hear,” Courfeyrac says, tears brimming in his own eyes now, putting a hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck and toying with his ponytail.

“So many battles,” Enjolras begins. “So many close calls, so much danger, and yet this…”

“I know,” Combeferre says. “But that danger was faced with people who never betrayed us. Who would never consider such a thing. Here we are faced with a betrayal that never quite healed.”

“We’ll get out of here,” Courfeyrac whispers, and Enjolras hears his own spirit wrapped up in his words, but with a touch more heat. “We may face hell before that, but men come back from that. Dante knows something about that. Besides. I’m sure our friends would come rescue us from actual hell, if need be. I’m certain Prouvaire could find a way to retrieve us.”

Enjolras laughs, the sound subtle but genuine, and the three of them shift, stretching across the bed. Courfeyrac’s usually in the middle when they’re all sharing, but tonight Enjolras takes that place, pushing the sleeve the doctor rolled up back down, eyeing the red coat he’d placed across the chair. Something about it centers him, pulling back newer memories, the laughter of his friends in his head, resting alongside the crash of the waves and the songs filling the air as they worked.

_My brothers_ , he hears himself say one day after a particularly successful mission when they’d overturned a ship with thirty slaves hidden below. _And sisters_ , he continued, nodding at Cosette and Eponine, who were taking a turn sailing with the _Liberte_. _Today you have done something to change the worlds of the men and women those merchantmen held in bondage. And that is nothing less than a step toward changing the world as a whole. We will interrupt their trade. We will interrupt their commerce. We will force them to see the humanity of the people they call cargo until all of it comes crumbling down, replaced with something better. Perhaps we may not see it. But it will come as sure as the sun bursts over the horizon each morning. But only if we keep fighting._

He feels Combeferre and Courfeyrac each take one of his hands, and at some point in the night when he can no longer tell his dreams from reality, sleep captures him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I bet maybe you want to throw rocks at me right now, but just stay with me! There will more swashbuckling and high seas adventure to come, I promise.


	22. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate for information on Valjean and Fantine, Javert and Michel question Courfeyrac. Afterward, Enjolras loses his temper at his father, and in the tension of the moment, Astra finally confesses that she helped the Trio escape Port Royal, and Michel finally learns the truth. Later that night, Michel shows up at Javert's door, a half bottle of brandy coursing through him and doubting everything he's ever known, which terrifies Javert. The next morning Baron Travers arrives, and Enjolras confronts his grandfather for the first time in 12 years. The former governor has a new deal in mind, seeking an end where he can separate Enjolras and Combeferre, and Michel finds himself rapidly losing control of the situation. But a few miles off the coast of Kingston, the Liberte and the Misericorde wait, formulating a plan to rescue the Trio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of stray notes:
> 
> I mention the Misericorde being about 1 league from somewhere, and just for reference, 1 league is roughly 3 miles (not nautical miles, which is another thing, but regular old miles. Talk about confusing). 
> 
> I also mention the Admiralty Court, which was run by the British Navy and held trials for all transgressions committed at sea, so I'm assuming piracy also fell under their jurisdiction.
> 
> I also mention some pirates being essentially sold into slavery from the government to East India and the like as a punishment for the rare times they were caught and didn't receive capital punishment. So, convict laborers like Valjean in the beginning of the fic, but with very little chance of every being released, which apparently was a thing.

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 6**

**The Enjolras home. Kingston, Jamaica.**

Time remains elusive to Courfeyrac.

There’s no clock in the room-done on purpose, he suspects-though he knows several days have passed by the rise and the fall of the sun outside the window, though they’ve barely seen the outside of the room, let alone the house.

“How long have we been here?” Courfeyrac asks from his place splayed on the bed next to Enjolras, who sits against the pillows knees pulled up to his chest.

“Nearly six days,” Combeferre answers. “Plus two on the ship.”

“So nearly six days here, two on the ship, that’s eight” Courfeyrac muses. “It likely took two or three for the Liberte to sail back to Nassau. How long is the journey from Nassau to Jamaica?”

“At best seven days, likely eight, possibly nine,” Combeferre answers, looking up. “But hopefully they’ll stay to the seven or eight.”

“So still a handful of days before they could reasonably be here,” Enjolras adds. “And they might send a scout, figure out the terrain before they make their move.” He frowns, concern lining his face. “And I believe my grandfather is set to arrive soon.”

“You’re worried,” Courfeyrac observes.

“I believe our lives are safe,” Enjolras says. “In a manner of speaking. But I don’t want us separated before then or it will be more difficult for them to mount a rescue.”

“You’re worried about them separating me from the two of you,” Courfeyrac says, understanding.

“If his plan is to take custody of Frantz and myself, and it seems like it is,” Enjolras answers. “Then yes. Because I don’t know what he’s planning for you, though I’m afraid it may involve prison. But I believe he’d wait to separate us until Valjean and Fantine arrive, that’s the lynchpin of their plan. But my grandfather….that’s the wild card.”

“He may not agree with the deal your father is setting up with Admiral Adams,” Combeferre says, eyebrows furrowing. “He may want to separate all three of us.”

“And perhaps by stronger means than walls,” Enjolras murmurs.

The door opens without warning, interrupting their conversation. Michel and Javert step inside, and Courfeyrac hears the whispers of the two East India officers standing outside the door.

“Hands out, Auden,” Javert says, holding just a single set of manacles in his hands.

“Why?” Enjolras asks, and Courfeyrac hears the particular anger reserved for Javert present in his voice, hot rather than cold, a flash of fire in his voice.

“Because I said…”

“Do not bicker,” Michel interrupts, clearly annoyed and exhausted. “Just do as he asks, Auden.”

“Where are you taking him?” Enjolras asks, and Courfeyrac hears the danger in his voice.

“Just to the next room over, Rene,” Michel says. “Calm down.”

“Do _not_ tell me to calm down again,” Enjolras says, fury in his eyes. “Why on earth would I trust you when you’re separating my friend from me? After everything you’ve done?”

“We’re just asking a few questions,” Michel says.

 “And you think I’ll answer them more easily,” Courfeyrac surmises. “Well, you’re mistaken.”

“We’ll see,” Javert says, locking the manacles around Courfeyrac’s wrists and then his ankles.

“You can’t do this,” Combeferre says, the words slipping out without his permission, and something about them sends a metaphorical slap to Michel’s face, and he flinches, memories resting in his eyes.

“I think you’ll find we can,” Michel says, and Courfeyrac hears a small tremor in his voice. “Come along, Auden.”

Courfeyrac turns his head once more before Javert seizes him by the arm, mouthing a soundless _I’ll be all right_ at Enjolras and Combeferre before Javert leads him from the room. The two East India officers stare at him as they emerge.

“What’s the matter boys?” he asks. “Never seen a pirate before? I’m certain you have, given who your captain is.”

“Enough, Auden,” Michel says.

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks as they walk in to the other room, and he eyes three wooden chairs and a table.

“Because I hold a great deal of power in my hands when it comes to your fate,” Michel says, not unkindly. Javert places Courfeyrac in the chair, attaching the manacles to a loop on the table.

“And what is that exactly?” Courfeyrac asks, leaning forward and looking Michel in the eyes as he and Javert sit down opposite him. “You haven’t bothered to say, though I seem to have gathered what your plans are for Rene and Frantz. You want to whisk them away to Europe and lock them away behind closed doors, don’t you? Under the guise of them being mad, mentally corrupted by these _dreadful_ pirates.”

“I know what’s best for them,” Michel insists.

Courfeyrac scoffs, shaking his head. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I am attempting to gain a prison sentence for you,” Michel finally says.

“Oh well my _endless_ thanks,” Courfeyrac replies, voice growing close to a snarl, the sound foreign coming from his own mouth. “I would definitely enjoy spending the rest of my days in a dark, dank room chained to a wall.”

“Well then you should have considered that before you broke the law, Auden,” Michel says, the air of a lecture in his voice. “It is commonplace for prisoners to serve on ships…”

“As slaves, you mean, though perhaps that’s not what you call it,” Courfeyrac says, cutting him off, a sharp pain pricking in his chest as he thinks of Valjean and the very rare times he shared stories of his years serving on an East India ship. “If you’re asking if I’d rather that, no. A lot of those prisoners are sold to East India, are they not? I wouldn’t serve the enemy I fight.”

“I am trying to save you the shame and humiliation of a trial by the Admiralty Court,” Michel says, gritting his teeth. “To honor your father. And because I know my son and Frantz care about you.”

“I don’t care what you’re _trying_ to do,” Courfeyrac says. “And do not invoke my dead father, if you please, given I just found out, and given that as I grew older he barely noticed my existence, which you know full well.” Courfeyrac pauses, thinking Michel looks slightly chastised. “And if you think sending me to a prison where I’ll likely die within a few years will earn you acclaim from Rene and Frantz, well. Then you really are hopeless.”

“Would you rather it be the noose?” Javert asks. “This is the height of hubris.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t answer, learning back in the chair and looking away, feeling the pull of the manacles against the skin of his wrists.

“But you have another fate in mind, don’t you?” Michel asks. “You’re expecting Valjean and Fantine to come rescue you.”

At this Courfeyrac turns back around, glaring at Michel. “You should know better than to think I’d answer anything about that.”

“Perhaps you can be persuaded,” Javert says. “With the right means.”

“Going to knock me around, Javert?” Courfeyrac asks, knowing he shouldn’t, but he cannot stop himself.

“Not unless called for,” Javert says. “I don’t take pleasure in that sort of thing, no matter what you may think.”

“No I suppose you save that particular role for the former Governor Travers, don’t you?” Courfeyrac taunts, placing his palms flat on the desk. “You’re such a coward you couldn’t stand up to a man who was beating children. I know the Royal Navy doles out rather harsh physical punishments for their men, don’t they? But you merely order them and let your officers dirty their hands, I’m sure.”

Javert stands up so quickly he looks like a blur, slamming both of his hands down on the desk, close to Courfeyrac’s but never touching them.

“You will not speak to me that way,” Javert says, and Courfeyrac sees he’s touched a nerve. “Ever again.”

Courfeyrac glares at him, and Javert straightens again, clearing his throat, a superficial calm washing over his face. Javert reaches down into the deep pockets of his uniform jacket, pulling out something very familiar.

Courfeyrac’s dirk.

It’s his prized possession, a gift given to him on the birthday after Valjean bequeathed them the _Liberte_ , etched with the design of a ship, which was Bossuet’s work, the leather of the sheath bearing the words _A.Courfeyrac_

“Not giving that back to me, I suppose?” Courfeyrac says, joking darkly.

“I don’t recall you possessing skills with a dirk when you ran away from Port Royal,” Javert says, considering the knife as he paces around in a circle around Courfeyrac. “Care to tell me who gave this to you?”

“My friends,” Courfeyrac says. “Though I’m not sure you know the meaning of the word.”

“Hmm,” Javert says, pulling it from the sheath and examining the etchings. “And who taught you to wield it?”

“That’s really none of your concern,” Courfeyrac answers, the slightest tremble escaping into his voice.

“I saw a similar weapon on Fantine’s belt,” Javert says, turning back toward him. “And on her daughter’s.”

“I am _not_ answering any of your questions about Fantine and Valjean,” Courfeyrac insists.

“Not even to have time taken off the prison sentence?” Michel interjects. “I have the power to make that so. Anything about the most common routes they use, crimes they committed we don’t have record of. Something to do with the plan I’m certain is in place to come here after you, if previous behavior is any indication. Anything like that.”

“I said _no_ ,” Courfeyrac replies, unable to stop looking at his knife in Javert’s hands.

At this Javert steps around the table, putting the dirk back in the sheath and lifting up Courfeyrac’s chin with the edge.

“Much of your crew is likely for the noose,” Javert says, his matter of fact tone making Courfeyrac’s stomach sink. He grips the edge of the table as he holds Javert’s gaze, forcing happier memories into his mind, memories of laughter as the stars set over the islands, of Cosette twirling around and kicking up sand as they left money on doorsteps the night they met Marius and Eponine, memories of the fresh sea air blowing against his face the night he, Enjolras, and Combeferre escaped from Port Royal. “There’s _nothing_ you can do for them. They will receive punishment as the law dictates for their wickedness.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes; any sort of answer gives them an advantage, and he won’t slip.

“I’m surprised you’re balking; pirates are talented at being selfish,” Javert continues, tilting Courferyrac’s chin up with the sheathed dirk. “Selfish, perfidious, villains who deserve their comeuppance at the end of a rope.”

Courfeyrac can’t move well with the manacles, but he makes use of his forearms, pushing the table forward with a sudden shove, knocking the edge against Michel and Javert, feeling his blood catch fire, the movement making Javert accidentally drop the dirk.

“Say any piece of that to me again,” Courfeyrac says, angry tears filling his eyes. “We’ll call it a dare.”

Recovering from his shock, Javert reaches across the table, reaching out to seize Courfeyrac by the lapels, but Michel puts his arm across the table, blocking him.

“That’s enough,” Michel says, and Courfeyrac hears that same exhaustion from before. “Nicholas, a word outside if you would.” Michel rises, turning back toward Courfeyrac as Javert covers up the surprise in his expression. “One more move like that, Auden, and you’ll find yourself in a jail cell tonight.”

“Why put off something you seem to think inevitable?” Courfeyrac snaps, biting his lip against the stream of words trying to emerge, each one searing and building up in his throat.

“Quiet,” Javert says, turning his head once more toward Courfeyrac before following Michel outside, though they neglect to close the door all the way.

Courfeyrac feels his heartbeat slow down, but some of the tears from earlier spill out, hearing Feuilly’s voice in his head.

 _Angry crier too_? Feuilly asked once. _Me too. I despise it._

 _Only when I’m very furious_ , Courfeyrac had said, laughing. _It is aggravating._

He closes eyes, breathing in deep, then opens them again when his mind greets him with images of his friends in chains walking to the gallows, mixed together with flashes of Enjolras and Combeferre confined in rooms, doctors bleeding them and convincing them they’re mad.

Of himself in a dark prison cell.

 _They’re coming_ , he tells himself. _And then Michel and Javert, Baron Travers and the admiral will all learn just how much they’ve underestimated their opponents._

Voices float in from the other side of the door and Courfeyrac leans forward, listening intently.

“Nicholas,” Michel says, patient, but with a reprimand in his voice. “I need you to calm yourself a bit. You’re losing your temper and I need your head clear.”

“My apologies,” Javert says, but Courfeyrac hears the grumble in his voice. “But Michel…these are the tactics we employ when interrogating pirates. I’m afraid you would not have stopped me were this any other situation. This cannot be different.”

“It _is_ different," Michel insists. “Do not pretend you think otherwise.”

“This is my job,” Javert tries, evading.

“Words I have repeated to myself to my own detriment for decades," Michel says, a sadness in his voice. “To the detriment of others.”

"Sir," Javert says, giving in, and Courfeyrac senses he’s nodding.

Whatever Michel says is too soft for Courfeyrac to hear, and they re-enter the room, Javert coming over and undoing Courfeyrac’s manacles from the table, leading him from the room in silence. Enjolras and Combeferre jump up from the bed the minute the door opens. Courfeyrac waits to speak until Michel undoes his manacles, then the words come tumbling out of his mouth before either of the older men beat him to the punch.

“Seems your father’s kindness to me involves a prison cell,” Courfeyrac says, stepping over toward his friends, absentmindedly rubbing his wrist. “So your prediction was correct, Rene.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer immediately, searching Courfeyrac’s face, seeing the reddened eyes, hearing his voice inch up just a tad higher, an effort to cover his upset until Michel and Javert leave.

“What did you do?” Enjolras asks, directing the question to his father.

“Rene…”

“What did you _do_?” Enjolras repeats, eyes flashing.

 “Simply asked questions,” Michel replies. “There is no need to get so upset.”

“Oh I’m certain,” Enjolras says, poison in his voice, and Courfeyrac hates the sound, hates what being here does to Enjolras, to all of them.

“Do not start Rene,” Michel says, and Courfeyrac sees that fear again. That guilt.

“You started this,” Combeferre interjects. “You started this by luring us here by capturing our friend.”

“Dear god!” Michel says, and Enjolras starts at the sound of his father’s shout, rare as they are. “You are pirates! I did not trick you here and lead you away from a life of goodness, you are criminals!”

“You kept us here together only to keep secret plans to separate us,” Enjolras accuses, stepping closer. “To lock Auden in a prison where people die regularly and no one even blinks. And you think that’s kindness.”

“You are so far gone that you do not realize anything is kinder than the noose,” Michel says, “You do not realize that I am bending every law and every custom in place. Valjean and Fantine have done a solid job on you, I hope they’re proud.”

“Make one more comment about the state of my sanity,” Enjolras says, voice growing lower and lower, and Courfeyrac knows it takes every ounce of his control not to burst open. “Or about Valjean and Fantine.”

 _Or what?_ Courfeyrac senses Michel wants to say, but doesn’t, clenching his fists. “Rene,” he says again. “I need you to calm down. Your grandfather arrives tomorrow, and it will not do for him to see you like this, do you understand me?”

Courfeyrac turns at the sound of footsteps, seeing Astra step into the doorway, looking bewildered. But before she asks the question hanging on her lips, Enjolras speaks again.

“How _dare_ you?” Enjolras says, voice colder than Courfeyrac’s ever heard it, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“How dare _I_?” Michel asks, raising his voice again.

“Use him to threaten me,” Enjolras says, slivers of glass in his voice. “Use the man who berated Frantz, who threatened charges against him for nothing, who _beat_ me, to make me docile. To get what you want. To think I thought you changed, even if just a fraction, at least enough to push back against him.”

“What I want is to save your life!” Michel shouts. “I…”

“Michel,” Astra interrupts. “I think you might need to calm down.”

Michel looks over as if he’s just noticed her, ignoring her words and turning back to his son.

“What I want is the boy I knew to emerge,” Michel continues. “I want him back.”

“He’s right here,” Enjolras says, not elaborating, but Courfeyrac hears the vulnerability in his voice.

“No he’s not!” Michel says, voice cracking as it gets louder, and Courfeyrac sees pieces of the man crumbling to dust in front of him.

“Michel,” Astra says, stepping fully into the room now, placing her hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and some of the tension in his stance melts away.

“What is this?” Michel says, gesturing at the two of them.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks.

“You ran away from all of us,” Michel says. “Including your mother, and yet you don’t treat her like you do me.”

“Because she wasn’t complicit in the things happening in this house,” Enjolras says. “You were.”

“No,” Michel says, shaking his head, stepping forward and swiping his hand through the air, unconvinced. “No, there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s nothing, Michel,” Astra says, pushing back. “Stop acting like this.”

At this, Courfeyrac sees Javert step forward in defense of Michel but he stops at one look from Astra, eyes widening at the anger in her face.

“There is,” Michel says. “You have pushed back against this deal I’ve been making since before we even brought them here. You said you were rather them be _pirates_ , it doesn’t make _sense_.”

“Leave her alone,” Enjolras says. “You fractured your relationship with me all on your own, stop looking for someone to blame for it.”

“What is it?” Michel asks again. “I’ve noticed it ever since you arrived, looks between the two of you, no hesitation, no anger, no…”

“I let them go!” Astra shouts, cutting off Michel’s ramble, a kind of electricity crackling around her. “The night they ran away. I helped them get out.”

Her words strike the floor like glass shattering, followed by a thick, oppressive silence that sends shivers up Courfeyrac’s spine. Michel’s eyes go wide, breaths coming in out and quickly through his nostrils, the color draining from his face.

“ _What_?” Michel asks, his voice like an icy wind so sharp the needles stab your cheeks.

Another pause, and Courfeyrac hears the thump of his own heart in the silence.

“You heard me, Michel.” Astra’s voice shakes, but she stands tall, and there’s no remorse in her voice.

Michel smacks his fist against the wall and they all flinch at the uncharacteristic physical show of anger. His fist remains on the wall even though Courfeyrac’s certain it must ache, as if the structure is the only thing holding him up. Michel stares at Astra, the expression on his face uncannily similar to his son’s, but for once, Courfeyrac finds himself _fearing_ Enjolras’ father, lashing out as he falls apart.

“A _word_ , Astra,” Michel says. “Nicholas,” he says, turning toward Javert. “Make sure the three of them are locked in. Then I suggest you go home, get some rest.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, very soft, still looking shocked himself, though not nearly as shocked as Michel, and Courfeyrac wonders just how many of Astra’s secrets he suspects.

He inches closer to Enjolras, who watches his parents go without words, but with that familiar burn in his eyes. Combeferre opens his mouth and closes it again, as bound up with these two people as Enjolras himself.

For once, Courfeyrac finds even as he grasps at words, that he cannot find them.

* * *

**A few minutes later.**

Michel follows Astra down the hall. He cannot take control of the situation enough to even pick the room; Astra leads them into her bedchamber, no doubt because it makes her feel safe, because he knows even now, through the haze of rage of which he finds no comparison in his life, if she told him to leave, he would. She closes the door hard behind her even if it isn’t quite a slam, turning and facing him, anger lining her features.

“I knew this would be hard for you,” Astra begins. “And part of me hoped to keep it from you, not just to protect myself, but God help me, to spare your feelings. But Michel, I’m telling you now if you make a show of physicality like you did in there you will not hear another word from me in explanation. That is the only one I will give you because I know you were shocked.”

Michel doesn’t answer, feeling his knees buckling beneath him. He puts his hand up against the wall, feeling reality slip away from him in a rush of color that fades at the edges. Once his knees stabilize he faces his wife, running his fingers through his hair, and when he draws back his hand it’s slick with sweat.

“Michel,” Astra says, reaching out but as his eyes snap furiously over her she pulls away, and he feels guilt flood him at the fear in her eyes. Finally, he finds words, and they come out sharp, cold and unforgiving.

“I've long accepted your preference of me as a housemate rather than your husband, but to send my _child_ away? My only _son_?”

“He is my son too!” she shouts.

“Our son!” Michel answers. “ _Our_ son, Astra. You do not get to make unanimous decisions about his welfare and then lie to me to about them for twelve years! Especially when they include sending him away along with the son of my deceased dearest friend I swore to protect.”

“You didn’t protect him!” Astra shouts, tears in her voice. “You didn’t protect either of them.”

“They’re pirates!” Michel says, hearing his voice melting and breaking and growing hoarse at the ends of his sentence. “They are pirates, they are criminals, and it is _your_ fault.”

Astra stares at him for a solid thirty seconds, eyes narrowing, hands clenching into fists as they tremble.

“How dare you?” she finally says. “How _dare_ you, Michel?”

“You sound like Rene,” he scoffs. “He must have learned it from you.”

“You blame me for this,” she says, ignoring him. “You blame me, after everything you allowed? Christ, Michel, do you even know how hard it was, how _agonizing_ it was, to feel Rene’s hand slip out of mine, wondering if I’d ever see him again. If I’d ever see Frantz again. Knowing it would hurt you, even if I was furious at you. Knowing that the most painful thing in the world for me was the best for them. And I still believe that’s true.”

She stumbles over the last words, not lacking confidence but shrouding them in more secrets, yet he cannot bear to hear another, not tonight.

“Did you help them plan it?” Michel asks. “God, did you give them the idea yourself?”

“No,” Astra says. “I caught them leaving me a letter, and I realized what they were doing. For a long time I’d wondered if they might try, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. But in that moment, I knew it was the only choice.”

“I don’t even know you,” he says, turning his back, too angry to look at her. They were going to leave Astra a letter, and they were going to leave him…

Nothing.

 _Did you deserve a letter?_ The voice inside his head asks, oddly gentle, but clear with its implications.

“Who even knows if I ever have?” he continues. “Clearly I don’t.”

“You know the parts of me you chose to see,” Astra says, standing her ground. “You didn’t want to know more. I was the pretty wife on your arm, the opportunity for a career with East India and out from the shadow of being a second son.”

“You’ve hidden parts of yourself from me since we married,” Michel argues. “Secrets, always. Who knows how many you have? But this…I never thought something like this. Why didn’t you just go with them, then, hmm? Escape from your monstrous husband.”

“Dammit, Michel!” Astra shouts. “Do not make this about you. I couldn’t go with them, and you know that full well. It was easier for them to slip under the radar without me. Besides, I wasn’t the one in danger, they were, and those boys are what mattered to me. It wasn’t easy for me to listen to you cry for nights on end, but you didn’t do _anything_ Michel. It was all falling apart and you just let it happen.”

“I know!” Michel says, spinning around on his heel, finally facing her again. “I know I did!”

His words echo through the room, bouncing back off the walls and into his own ears. He looks at her and she looks back, the confession like an explosion, leaving them in the strange calm of the aftermath.

“Then what would you have had me do?” Astra asks, stepping closer, and Michel senses she somehow sees the vulnerability he feels. “What _could_ I have done, Michel?”

“Not let them run away,” Michel presses, feeling short of breath. “Not help them do that, of all things. You cried for months, Astra. I heard you, too. You were in your bed more than you were out of it. And yet you sent them on their way.”

“Because I wanted them safe,” Astra answers. “That was more important than my own feelings, than my own needs. I am a woman trapped by all the constraints that carries with it, and I watched those boys hurt. This was all I _could_ do.”

“So you sent 14-year-old boys out into the wilds of the Caribbean,” Michel says, sarcastic. “Excellent plan.”

“Anything was safer than here,” Astra says, both fists clenched now, frustrated. “My father was looking for any reason to press charges against Frantz. He almost broke Rene’s nose, could have easily broken his jaw if he struck any harder. They were also not just any young men; they knew how to sail, how to fight. And it seems they learned how to survive. They’d already had plenty of practice.”

“This is why you were so adamant about not bringing them here,” Michel says, voice hoarse now, and he finds he cannot shout anymore. “So your secret wouldn’t come out.”

He gazes at Astra, thinking he hasn’t seen her so intimately in a long time. She’s in her night-gown, blue dressing gown over the top, long blonde hair resting over her shoulder in a braid. He rarely sees her like this anymore; she’s usually fully dressed by the time he lays eyes on her, both of them moving through the house like ghosts who cohabitate. He’s been infatuated with her nearly since he saw her, and he cannot help but love her still, even if everything lays in pieces around them, yet he’s never truly reached her, at least not in any way that lasted. When Rene was very young they’d been closer, and for a while he thought maybe she might fall in love with him, but there were always shadows behind her smiles, things she never told him. Things she might never tell him. And even if she did love him, in her way, he could tell the difference between what he wanted and what she offered.

“Because I wanted them safe,” she repeats.

“And you think they’re safe as pirates?” Michel asks. “Stealing from people on the high seas with the constant threat of death on their heels?”

“And you’ve brought them into the mouth of the monster that would bring that death upon them.”

“They are safe from the noose, Astra,” Michel insists. “I’ve told you that.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe. But death of the spirit is something else entirely, isn’t it? You would have to do a lot to crush those three young men, but no matter what your _intent_ , Michel, you certainly are trying.”

Michel turns away again, feeling tears building up behind his eyes. Another pause, the silence before the words ringing loud in his ears.

“Has it ever occurred to you, through all this, that they’re right?” Astra asks, an astonishing kindness in her voice. “That what they’re doing is right? The law is malleable. It changes. It doesn’t always equate to morality.”

More words soaked in secrecy, and though he cannot muster the energy to ask, he senses as if she knows more about Valjean and Fantine than she lets on.

“No,” he answers, far too quickly. “I would never consider piracy as the right option.”

“You have,” she says, sounding validated. “Michel…”

“You have developed an astounding affinity for pirates,” he says, interrupting her. “But I’ve heard enough for today, if you please.”

He walks toward the door, putting his hand on the knob before she speaks again.

“Where are you going?”

“To be alone,” he says without elaborating, the cold returning to his voice. “Kindly leave me to it. You haven’t had trouble doing that for the past twelve years in any case.”

He gazes at her one last moment, watching her finger the small gold bracelet she always wears, clearly anxious. She hardly ever removes that bracelet, he realizes, yet he has no idea who gave it to her. He’d given her plenty of jewelry as gifts over the years; that was never among them, but he doesn’t give voice to the curiosity.

She doesn’t answer and he leaves the room without looking back, but even as he walks away down the hall toward his study he feels guilt grip him, shame scraping against his skin with sharp claws, pushing the desperation he heard in her voice from his mind.

 _Because I wanted them safe_ , she kept repeating.

Safe with pirates.

Safe with Valjean and Fantine and their crew. Safe with the Prouvaire lad he’d met.

Never safe with him.

He pulls the key to his desk from his pocket, opening the bottom drawer and pulling out a fresh bottle of brandy, a gift from his father-in-law he hasn’t touched, but it’s all he has in here without venturing downstairs. Javert wasn’t waiting for him, so he must have gone home, a place it seems, where he spends precious little time. Michel retrieves a glass, pouring a large measure of the liquor before sitting down, eyes gazing around at the books and papers surrounding him, tossing his red uniform jacket over the opposite chair, a far cry from his usual tidiness.

Then, he drinks.  

* * *

**Later that evening. Javert’s home. Kingston, Jamaica.**

It's late when Javert hears the knock on the door. He's not asleep, which is no surprise, but he certainly didn't expect anyone.

He opens the door, seeing Michel on the other side. He looks terrible; his hair is completely loose and sweaty, his eyes red from what looks like a combination of tears and liquor. His waistcoat is missing and his jacket undone, his shirt mussed and his trousers wrinkled. There's no bottle in his hand, but he reeks of brandy.

"I'm sorry, Nicholas," he says, sounding more composed than Javert expects, though his voice cracks and Javert hears the threat of tears. "I...I didn't know where to go. There's no one else who I can talk to, you see. No one that..."

"Come in sir," Javert says, cutting off the ramble. He pushes Michel gently inside, looking around outside to make sure no one's seen them. "Sit," Javert says, thinking that commands are the only thing Michel might understand.

Even the command doesn’t pull Michel from his stupor, so Javert places his hands on his former superior officer, steering him to the chair and pushing him gently down by the shoulders. Feeling awkward, he sits down in the chair opposite Michel in the tiny sitting room. He’s scarcely home, and despite his increasing pay over the years, he still could not afford a house like the Enjolras’ and it wouldn’t have suited him besides. He rents this small house from a widowed merchant’s wife, and it holds a bedroom, a small sitting room, a kitchen and not a great deal more. Though Javert doesn’t feel quite embarrassed for the lack of finery, it’s still off-putting.

“I…” he says, feeling the awkwardness grow, studying Michel’s face and seeing the bloodshot eyes, his skin paler than usual, hair fallen out of its tie. At closer range the scent of brandy wafts off him.

“Michel,” Javert says. “What…is this about what Madam Enjolras told you? Is it true she helped them run away?”

"Yes," Michel says, and the word comes out in a burst of agony, and then the tears come again, sobs breaking out, sharp and unyielding.

Javert freezes. He's seen Michel cry twice; once when Arthur died, and once after the boys ran away, and he hadn't known how to handle it then. And this...this is something on an entirely new level. He hasn't truly cried since he was a child, so the feeling of awkwardness only doubles.

"Oh," he says, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, the only thing he can think to offer. "Here."

Michel accepts the handkerchief, wiping his eyes, but a few scattered sobs still come out, and he breathes in, calming himself.

"What kind of man am I, allowing this to happen?" Michel asks.

"You are an upstanding man," Javert insists.

"Upstanding to society perhaps," Michel says, looking up, his eyes even redder. "But I am not a _good_ man. I haven't been for a very long time."

"Michel..." Javert tries.

"I have alienated my wife to the point where I clearly no nothing of her," Michel says, not letting him finish. "I betrayed Arthur. I let my father in law abuse my son and Arthur's son. I participated in buying and selling human beings.”

“You have followed your orders from the Company,” Javert presses. “Your duty. You have fought for king and country without question against the pirate threat.”

“Exactly,” Michel says. “Without question. Even if I did question, I quashed it, even when Arthur tried…”

He cannot finish the sentence, a few softer sobs marring his words. Lost for action, Javert thinks of all the times Michel clasped his shoulder and reaches out, patting Michel on the side of the arm, then draws back. Michel looks up at this, a fond, if watery smile on his lips.

“You have always believed in me Nicholas,” he says. “I am grateful for that. For the loyalty you have shown me. I only fear I may have led you astray.”

“No, Michel,” Javert insists. “You have led a life of honor. You truly taught me what it meant to be a sailor, to be an officer. You gave me a chance when no one else would’ve. I…do not take this as an insult to Madam Enjolras, but you are not in the one who committed an error here.”

“But don’t you see, Nicholas?” Michel asks. “If they…if Astra, if Rene and Frantz and Auden are right, then you shouldn’t have had such a difficult time getting someone to take a chance on you because you were Romani. Is that how a just society works?”

“Everyone must have their place,” Javert says. “There must be hierarchy. I had to prove I was unlike others who share my heritage,” he says, ashamed of the words, feeling his cheeks grow hot. “It has become our job to guard and defend society against pirates. People who break every law imaginable. They are not good men. You are.”

Michel doesn’t answer, placing his head in his hands.

“I know it must have been hard for you,” Javert says, heartily wishing someone would hit him in the head with some type of heavy kitchen utensil. He cannot escape the fact that he cares about Michel Enjolras, but he also knows he is not suited for this particular scenario. “To see Rene and Frantz as pirates, to have them treat you the way they do.”

“Astra kept saying she wanted them safe,” Michel says, looking back up again, eyes trailing over the room. “That they weren’t safe here. And as furious as I am with her, she’s right. But I want to save them, I want…” he focuses on Javert again, starting in his chair as if he’s just realizing himself. His eyes widen a flush creeping into his cheeks. “Oh, I am sorry Nicholas,” he says. “I have disturbed you, shown up at your door having consumed a half bottle of brandy in my upset at my wife.”

“It’s all right,” Javert says, sincere, though he looks away from Michel. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer here, but there is tea. No coffee, I’m afraid, I know you prefer it.”

“Tea is fine if it doesn’t put you out,” Michel says. “I could go, if you wish it.”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s wise,” Javert says, meeting his eyes again. “Until the tea ah…lessens some of the effects of the brandy, if I may be so bold.”

“You may,” Michel says. “Thank you, my friend.”

Javert gets up at that, busying himself with the tea and avoiding his own swell of emotion at the endearment.

“My father in law arrives tomorrow,” Michel says. “And I am afraid Rene will make him angry.”

“I fear that is nearly inevitable,” Javert grumbles.

There’s a pause, and though his back is to Michel, Javert imagines him tilting his head in question at Javert’s tone.

“You don’t think Rene is mad, do you?”

“It is not my place…”

“I’d appreciate your honesty,” Michel says, cutting him off. “Truly.”

“No,” Javert says after a moment. “I do not.”

There’s a pause, then an answer, and Michel laces his fingers together, looking thoughtful.

“I thought not,” he confesses. “Could you explain why?”

Javert turns away from the tea preparation, feeling nervous, and it clearly shows in his face.

“I will not be angry at your disagreement with me, Nicholas,” Michel says. “I am looking for your honest thoughts. I…I cannot discuss this matter with my men, and not with Astra, either.”

Javert sighs briefly, hearing the tell-tale sounds of the water boiling behind him on the stove.

“Valjean is capable of many things,” Javert begins. “And it is not that I do not blame him, in some respects for Rene’s degradation.”

 _You have killed Rene Enjolras with his happy consent and replaced him with this…monster,_ he hears himself say.

“Rene said you called him a monster?” Michel says.

“I…perhaps I was a bit harsh,” Javert says, privately thinking he wasn’t. “But as I said, although Valjean is capable of much, I do not believe it is nature to manipulate or coerce. He is wrong, about everything but he…” Javert stumbles over the words, hating them. “He is oddly generous. It has caused me strife for years, because it makes little sense. But there was no feeling of coercion in Rene, when I saw twice before we brought them here. And he still acted like himself, spoke like himself. Different, I grant,” he says at Michel’s look of protest. “Older and more entrenched in these beliefs he feels so right. But still himself. Not the small boy I first met, but the young man who disrespected you. Who left.” There’s an undercurrent of anger in his voice, and he pushes the emotions rising with it down.

 Michel studies him for a moment and Javert turns back around, pouring the tea into cups and handing one over.

“I’m afraid they are a bit simple,” Javert says, feeling that sensation of pseudo-embarrassment again. “Despite the prize money I’ve earned since my promotion I am not quite used to…” he trails off, not finishing. He spent so much of his life poor, even when he began with East India, and as his pay rose over the years, in later years under the Company and then in the Navy, he never had gotten used to being secure in that way.

“It is quite all right,” Michel says, offering an exhausted smile, taking a sip of the steaming liquid. “I am grateful to you.”

Javert’s eyes run over Michel, seeing how truly terrible he looks, his words about Rene being right making Javert anxious. He hears Admiral Adams’ words from a few days ago run through his head.

_And I need that managed, you see. I need you to make sure Michel doesn’t make any…rash decisions_

Michel wouldn’t break the law, Javert tells himself.

 _Isn’t he already_? Another voice answers.

 _No_ , Javert argues. _He’s working with the needed authorities and using his well-earned influence_.

“I’m not certain if I’m correct about Rene being mad and Frantz along with him,” Michel says, bringing the conversation back around. “But…” he looks up, shame in his face. “I need to go along with that in order to get custody of them. It will make things easier. I hope you do not think less of me.”

Michel looks at him, pleading, and Javert softens, thinking again just how vulnerable his friendship with Michel leaves him. As a younger man, alone for years and working within East India, he would have scoffed at the idea, but now…now it was different and on his darkest nights as of late, he wonders what he’ll do if forced to choose between his loyalty to Michel and his duty.

“Of course not,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “Do you truly think you will go to France? Give up your position? Your ship?”

 _Leave me?_ The boy inside Javert asks, and he bats the voice away.

“It would be best,” Michel says, and even through the faint haze of brandy, he takes Javert’s meaning. “But I was thinking perhaps, if you took a position in England proper, it would be easier to visit one another. Well. If England and France are not at war.” He chuckles at that, and Javert sees the lines pronounced in his face.

“I think you ought to stay here tonight,” Javert says without really thinking. “You may have my bed.”

“Oh no, I can make my way home,” Michel says. “I don’t want to bother you any further.”

“If I may speak as your friend,” Javert says, the word still tasting odd on his tongue even after all this time. “I do not think that’s true. But I will also not keep you.”

Michel looks down at his hands, both of which tremble a bit around his teacup.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Michel says, relenting. “But I can at least sleep on your sofa here.”

“No,” Javert says. “I’ll sleep better on it than you will. I’ve fallen asleep on it previously.”

“Well,” Michel says, looking sheepish. “If you insist. I’ll have to be up earlier than normal, as my father in law is set to arrive.”

Javert nods, and after they finish their tea he shows him the bedroom. Michel thanks him once more, and falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Despite himself, Javert watches for a moment even if he feels he’s intruding on a sort of intimacy. He feels an odd moisture gather in his eyes, swiping it away and stalking back toward the sofa, laying across it and seizing the single blanket from the back.

Sleep does not claim as easily as it did Michel, and he lays away for at least an hour before his eyes finally fall closed, thinking that with tomorrow’s sunrise, everything in his life will change.

* * *

**The next morning. The Enjolras home. Kingston, Jamaica.**

Michel curses the sun, pulling the shades in the carriage down further.

“All right?” Javert asks, sitting across from him. He’d sent a note to the house requesting the carriage, and Michel was grateful; he doesn’t think he could stand the sun shining in his eyes the entire walk from Javert’s.

“My head aches in a rather nasty fashion,” Michel answers, pressing his fingers against his eyelids. “Though thankfully the frightful nausea has passed.”

“That is something,” Javert agrees, and Michel feels the carriage come to a halt.

“Hopefully we’ll arrive before my father in law,” Michel says to Javert as the door opens. “I need to change.”

But as he steps down, he’s met with the disapproving face of Baron Travers.

“Michel,” he says, pursing his lips. “You look a fright, where have you been? Why are your clothes in such a state?”

“I was at Captain Javert’s discussing the situation last evening and it got rather late,” Michel explains, and really, it’s only half a lie. “As it was late and raining, he graciously offered to let me stay.”

“I’m not certain when a sailor such as yourself was shy of the rain,” Baron Travers says, sounding skeptical.

“It has been a trying few days,” Michel replies.

The baron leans forward slightly, sniffing, narrowing his eyes in response.

“I’m sure the brandy you reek of helped,” he says, sarcastic. “You really need to collect yourself, Michel.”

“I’m fine,” Michel snaps, tired of his father in law’s condescension. “Though I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice.”

“And where are you keeping my grandson and those two other unsavory brats?” Baron Travers asks.

“Upstairs, under guard,” Michel explains. “But I must change before we bring them down.”

“Just Rene for now,” Baron Travers says, then turns to Javert. “Captain,” he says with a nod, but there’s an odd look in his eyes as he looks at Javert that makes him uncomfortable. “I’m sure you wouldn’t mind taking a turn at standing guard? Especially given I’m sure the other two scoundrels will be a bit…rowdy when they learn I’ve arrived.”

“I do not mind sir,” Javert says, and Michel wonders at how calm he sounds. No matter how Javert fights against it, Michel knows there’s conflict within him just by the way he holds his hands behind his back, a usual sign of his anxiety.

“Send my daughter down if you would, on your way up,” Baron Travers says. “She can keep me company while you freshen up.”

They go inside, and as Michel goes up the stairs, Javert follows.

“If you would be so good, I’d appreciate it if you’d go and tell Rene I’m coming,” Michel says. “I dislike it, but we’ll have to manacle him, though I think just his wrists will suffice. He’ll no doubt know his grandfather is the reason, and I’d like to give him a few minutes to prepare himself.”

“I understand,” Javert says, softer at the mention of Rene now than he’s been the past few days. “I’ll go.”

Michel nods, walking down the other end of the hallway, but just as he knocks on Astra’s door it opens.

“Oh!” she exclaims, putting a hand to her chest, surprised. “You startled me.” Her eyes run over him, taking in his appearance, but doesn’t comment. There are things he wants to say to her, but there’s not the luxury of time.

“Your father is here,” he says without ceremony.

“I thought I heard his voice,” she says, grasping the door knob tighter.

“He asked me to send you down while I change,” Michel says, saying a great deal without words. In some ways, they could not be more distant from one another, but finally, they at least hold a somewhat united front against the baron. “He would like to see Rene.”

She looks at him, a flash of pain in her eyes before she steels herself.

“If he so much as touches Rene,” she says. “I will not promise my temper. Not again.”

“I know,” he says. Before last night he might have reached out, touching her shoulder in comfort. But now, he just nods, walking to his room and listening to the deep breath she takes before going down the stairs.

He closes the door to his bedroom, leaning against it and allowing himself a moment. He closes his eyes, images of Rene and Frantz buried up to their elbows in sand, Arthur by their sides and laughing merrily as he approached. Then it shatters, and he sees the mast striking Arthur, sees Rene’s bruised arm and the broken trust in Frantz’s eyes, confronted with the slaves on the Navigator. He sees Rene, Frantz, and Auden walking in a straight line toward him, swords and pistols strapped to their belts, proud, defiant, full of vivid color set against the monotonous gray of his own life.

 _Oh god_ , he thinks. _What have I done_?

* * *

**A few minutes later. The Enjolras home.**

Javert looks guilty the moment he enters the room, and Enjolras knows exactly what it means, feeling his stomach lurch the same way it does when the bow of the Liberte hits a wave during a gale, hanging in the air for a few seconds before smashing back down into the water.

“My grandfather is here,” Enjolras says before Javert speaks, a statement rather than a question.

“I’m afraid so,” Javert says, far kinder than Enjolras expects.

 “You’re afraid so?” Combeferre says. “But you’re not going to do anything about it, of course.”

“Frantz, please,” Javert says, and Enjolras really does hear the conflict in his voice now. “This is difficult for all of us.” He turns toward Enjolras now, holding out the manacles. “Your hands, Rene.”

Enjolras clenches and unclenches his fists, taking a deep breath, though his eyes don’t leave Javert’s face. He feels his insides start trembling, though it’s not visible outwardly yet. Javert looks back at him, a few seconds passing before he steps forward abruptly, reaching out to grab Enjolras’ wrist. Enjolras flinches, stepping back, his breaths growing rapid. Javert’s feet stay glued to the floor, his eyes widening at Enjolras’ reaction, the guilt more pronounced now. Sensing the conflict, Enjolras closes his eyes briefly before offering his hands. Javert locks the manacles around his wrists, and standard-sized as they are, they’re a smidge loose around Enjolras’ wrists, though not enough to slide his hands out of them.

“You always did have skinny wrists,” Javert mutters, only realizing himself as the words hang in the air, full of old affection.

Enjolras very nearly smiles, but the sound of Courfeyrac’s voice and the cold metal locked around his wrists reminds him that this is the present, not the past.

“If you take Rene you should take all three of us,” Courfeyrac says.

“Baron Travers requested an audience with his grandson,” Javert says, injecting his tone once more with that familiar harshness, covering for his earlier mistake. “He is not a man to be argued with, which all three of you know well. I suspect it is to yours and Frantz’s benefit that you aren’t there, in fact.”

The meaning of the words linger in the air, and Enjolras looks over, offering the smile he almost gave Javert to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

“I’ll be all right,” he assures them. “I knew this was coming.”

Michel opens the door, cutting off any further discussion. Just a cursory glance at his father tells Enjolras a great deal, filling in the blanks about his absence last night; he looks terrible even if he’s clearly just freshened up, eyes rimmed red, his pristine uniform done up in a hurry, the faint scent of soap overpowering for trying to cover up something else.

“Your grandfather is waiting downstairs, Rene,” Michel says, wincing at the words. “I need you to come with me. Nicholas, if you could stay here with Frantz and Auden, please.”

Javert nods, the silence of the room thick and uncomfortable. His father lets him walk out on his own, the sound of the door closing behind him, sending lead plummeting to the pit of his stomach. He feels again like the child he was living in the house in Port Royal, trapped.

The feeling isn’t welcome.

“I won’t let him strike you,” Michel says, stopping him at the top of the stairs, apologetic.

Enjolras gazes at his father, seeing the same guilt he saw in Javert’s eyes, but closer to breaking point.

“I spend a great deal of my life engaging in physical combat,” Enjolras answers. “I have been injured before. So I’m afraid it’s not really the physical pain I might endure that’s the problem. It hurt a great deal as a child, when I couldn’t truly defend myself. But the physical beatings weren’t really the point, were they? It was simply how he manifested his abuse. The power he had over me was the point. The fear he instilled in me. Say anything he might not like and receive a slap or a yank or a punch in response. Eventually, nothing I said was right. And you’re not truly doing anything to combat that. You’re still taking me to him. You’re still doing as he asks.”

Tears gather in Michel’s eyes and he swipes at them. “I do not know how to simply break the rules and laws of what I have always known,” he says, voice husky with emotion. “I do not know where to begin.”

“At the point where you find it is the only way to do right,” Enjolras says, and something about the words make a new confidence spread through him. It doesn’t erase the fear, but it does shine out stronger. In his father’s eyes he sees some desire for change, for atonement, but he doesn’t know if his father will find his courage in time for it to matter.

Before he even fully considers it, Enjolras reaches out for his father, hands still manacled, but Michel steps back, a marked fear in his eyes. And somehow, it hurts more than Enjolras expected.

 “I can’t…” Michel begins, taking a breath. “We must go downstairs.”

There’s nothing for it, so Enjolras walks down the stairs, Michel just behind him, and as he turns into the dining room just off the landing, he sets eyes on his grandfather. He looks much as Enjolras remembers him, just older, his skin more wrinkled, wearing the same pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, iron gray hair powdered even in the Caribbean heat.

"Well hello there Rene," Baron Travers says as Enjolras sits down at the table, eyes flitting over to his mother for a fraction of a second before they lock on his grandfather again. He hears his father sit down in the other empty chair. Baron Travers smiles, but there's nothing kind, only something sinister.

Enjolras stares at him, impassive, manacles clanking against the wood as he sets his hands on the table.

"I assume it was you who ordered me manacled for you arrival?" he asks. "You know you can't control me with a slap or a punch anymore because I'm not a child, but you needed some way to make you feel powerful, I imagine."

"My but you are as disrespectful as ever," the baron answers. "Not that I could have expected better from a pirate. You are proud of the chaos, you have caused, I see. Successful enough to steal from me, even. Did that please you, Rene?"

"I did not set out to steal from you, if that's what you're asking. But I'd hardly call it stealing in the first place, given the cargo I took was a human being."

"Ah but you believe now you may say anything to me you like," his grandfather says. "You forget that I hold your very life in my hands. Not to mention the lives of..." he hangs onto the words for a few seconds, sharpening them before they emerge. "More of your pirate friends inside this very house, and those who I am certain are likely headed this way as we speak. Pirates are not executed like gentlemen, Rene. I'd bid you to remember that."

Enjolras feels his hands start shaking, pulling them back into his lap, but his voice remains calm.

"And I bid you to remember that death comes to us all, eventually," Enjolras says, and he sees the smallest flicker of uncertainty in his grandfather's eyes. "It does not answer to you alone. It does not discriminate between a criminal and an aristocrat. Flames catch just as easily no matter how...fine the material."

"Is that a threat?"

"A reminder."

At this his grandfather slams his hand on the table, the sound echoing around the room.

Enjolras flinches, but maintains eye contact his with his grandfather. He takes his still shaking hands, folding them upon the table, feeling a smirk sliding onto his face even though he knows taunting his grandfather is unwise.

"It's not the same, is it sir?" Enjolras asks.

"What isn't the same, you villanous boy?"

"Your rage, of course. It's not the same when you strike an inanimate object is it? It can't cry out. There are no bruises or scars left behind," he taps the bridge of his nose with one finger, a tiny scar resting there from the night his grandfather's fist connected with it, the ring he wore creating an indentation. "You thrived on making a child fear you. Well I am telling you I did fear you once. A part of me still does. But I am telling you now that it will not influence my actions. It will not change me. You cannot control me with it anymore."

"Interesting," his grandfather remarks. "Given your hands are shaking."

"It is not courage if you act with no fear in your heart," Enjolras retorts. "That's what courage is. Acting in spite of fear. You would know that if you'd ever done a courageous thing in your life. I know people worth 100 of you, who know the truth of that."

His grandfather gets up out of his chair, slower now due to age, stalking over and seizing Enjolras by the collar, yanking him forward but not completely out of the chair.

"Careful Rene, or I might not find your miserable live so worth saving."

"Father," Astra says, standing up, palms flat against the table. "You will not threaten my son."

"Please let go, Andrew," Michel echoes.

"Well haven't you grown even softer than I thought, Michel," the baron says, releasing Enjolras nonetheless. "I expected it from my daughter, she is a woman, but you....you are being influenced by something. Is it Javert perhaps? Finally showing his weakness for his wretched gypsy bloodline and distorting your sympathies?”

Enjolras feels a jolt of surprise hit him in the stomach, and he sees it reflected in his father's expression.

"I...what?" is the only thing Michel manages to say, his fingers massaging his temples again as if he has a headache.

"I figured it out a few years ago," Baron Travers explains. "I wanted to know with whom my grandson and son in law were spending so much time, and I found a connection. Located his birth records. To my surprise, he has been a good officer, despite that background. A rarity, for certain, a rarity which I suspect will not last forever. Is this his influence?"

"I would prefer if we left Nicholas out of this," and Enjolras hears concern in his father's voice. "He does not deserve to be entangled in our affairs."

"He already is," Baron Travers says. "So it is a bit too late for that. I’m certain that your affection for that wretched Combeferre boy continues marring your good sense, as it always has.”

"Sir," Michel says, more respectful now, a thread of fear running through his voice. "Admiral Adams has already agreed..."

"Oh for godsakes Michel I know what Adams has agreed to!" Baron Travers shouts. "But I’ve spoken to the new governor as well as the admiral. Your precious mulatto boy is safe from the noose on a few new conditions we drew up, you see. Similar to your deal but with my own input.”

“ _What_ input?” Michel asks, real anger in his voice, and out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees his mother raise her eyebrows, almost looking impressed.

“Rene will still be placed in custody under the idea that he’s mad and cannot care for himself,” Baron Travers says. “Only he will not be in your custody in France. He will be in mine. Here.”

Michel stands up, his voice smashed to pieces as it emerges.

“You cannot do that, Andrew,” he says. “I will not allow it. I had a deal with the Admiral, and it should stand.”

“You _will_ do it, if you wish to spare the Combeferre boy the noose,” Baron Travers says, and Enjolras feels his blood run cold, goosebumps popping up on his arms. “If you agree to this, I will not interfere with your taking custody of him.”

“Father you cannot do this,” Astra says. “You cannot take our son from us.”

“You utter bastard,” Enjolras says simultaneously, standing up as well, leaving his grandfather to address both of them at once.

“Sit down, Rene,” the baron says, smacking his hand on the table again. “Or there will not even be a negotiation.” He turns toward his daughter. “I am not taking him from you, Astra, you and Michel will be perfectly allowed to see him. But I will be in charge of his care, which is perhaps something I should have considered from the beginning. We will stay here, as we should, and put forth the story that he was kidnapped by pirates, who, with any luck, we will see dead within a few days of their almost certain arrival. And his contact with the Combeferre boy will be cut off. Permanently.”

At this, Enjolras feels his reason, his logic, feels every ounce of his rationality leave him, everything around him dripping, _bleeding_ red. He gets up, stepping forward to shove his grandfather, but his father slides an arm around his waist, preventing him from doing so. Michel almost loses his grip on his son, such is Enjolras’ strength, but eventually Enjolras gives in, everything still tinged with red.

 _You have no idea how much you underestimate my crew_ , Enjolras wants to shout. _You have no idea how much you will regret these mistakes._ But he doesn’t because it’s too dangerous now, to let his anger get the better of him more than he already has.

 “My but you are spirited,” Baron Travers says. “And mark my words, boy, if you had a brother, I wouldn’t give a care for your life. I’d have you executed privately, and that would be the end of the matter. As it is, we’ll see how much of the damage the pirates inflicted I can undo. Even you have your breaking point.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Enjolras shoots back.

“We’ll see,” his grandfather says.

“Andrew that is enough,” Michel says, that same anger in his voice even as it splinters, realizing he’s rapidly losing control of the situation.

"I quite agree,” his grandfather says. “In the meantime, I think our pirates here are in need of new lodgings." He snaps his fingers at the officers standing near the stairs. "Bring the other two brats down, manacle them. There's a cell waiting for them in the jail."

"A cell?" Astra asks. "Why would you..."

"Pirates do not get to sleep in feather beds," Baron Travers says, cutting her off. "A lesson must be taught."

“That was _not_ our agreement,” Michel says, still keeping hold of Enjolras.

“It was _my_ agreement,” Baron Travers says. “Once they’re settled then, Michel, you and I shall talk. But I suspect you only have until those horrid pirates arrive to make your choice. Shouldn’t be more than a few days at best, I’d think.”

The next few minutes are nothing more than a blur. Enjolras cannot say anything to his parents, nothing to Javert, who stands at the top of the stairs, expression inscrutable, nothing to Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they’re brought downstairs. He hears his mother shouting at his grandfather, hears his father’s desperate, cracked voice as a mix of East India and naval officers pile them into a carriage. They drive rapidly toward the jail, arriving in a matter of minutes, Admiral Adams standing by the door when they step out. He’d always known this was a possibility, he’d accepted jail, he’d even accepted the noose as an outcome he might face. He does not feel an ounce of regret, even if it was not something faced easily, but his grandfather putting them here, his grandfather’s threats, his _grandfather’s_ plans, all the things that have happened over the past few days, add a much more painful layer to the whole proceeding, even if knows that soon, there’s a very real chance the tide will turn.

“That first cell on your right, lads,” he says to the officers. “All three of them in the one.”

Their manacles are undone, and the admiral comes up as the officers scatter, his hand on the door.

“Enjoy your sleep _captain_ ,” Admiral Adams says, focusing on Enjolras. “Raise a fuss and the result will not be to your liking. My men are angry about the crewmen they’ve lost at your hands, after all. I’d bid you not to irritate them, especially given they might not be as lenient as your father’s men.”

With that he closes the door and locks it, the sound echoing through the jail with a sense of finality.

 “Well,” Courfeyrac says after the footsteps fade away, the color driven from his face at the sudden turn of events. “None of us can say this was unexpected, though I also have to say I imagine the conversation with your grandfather didn’t go well.”

“He struck a new deal,” Enjolras explains, watching the sun set and thinking, as he always does, of Combeferre. “If he gets custody of me, he’ll spare Frantz’s life and let my father keep custody of him. He’s leaving the choice to my father.”

“Using me as the bargaining chip,” Frantz murmurs, reaching out for Enjolras’ fingers, grasping tight, and Courfeyrac’s hand goes over the top. “Of course. He’s always wanted you and I separated.”

“Well he’s not going to get it,” Enjolras says, firm. “With any luck Valjean and Fantine will arrive in another day or two. Then, I imagine, there will be a reckoning.”

As the three of them huddle together on the small straw mattress on the ground, watching the sun sink below the horizon, the light strong even as it dies, set to rise again the next morning, Enjolras hopes he’s right.

* * *

**The _Misericorde_. A few miles off the coast of Kingston, Jamaica.**

When the _Liberte_ eases next to the _Misericorde_ , Bahorel’s the first one down the gangplank. They’re roughly a league or so away from the Kingston harbor, darkness covering them like a blanket; there’s barely a star in sight, the crescent moon the only true light from above. The lanterns cast an eerie glow as he steps on the _Misericorde_ , Prouvaire, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire, and Gavroche following close behind him.

“I was afraid you’d be a few hours yet,” Fantine says, greeting them as they step on deck, grasping Bahorel’s hand. “We’d lost sight of you.”

“Just got a bit blown off course,” Bahorel says. “Feuilly says we weren’t more than three quarters of an hour behind you. Wind wasn’t cooperative. But Feuilly handled the navigation magnificently in Combeferre’s absence in tandem with Prouvaire, as well as taking care of his temporary captain duties. Though I admit, I had to force him to hand over his boatswain duties and let Bossuet manage the deck crew.”

“Bahorel,” Feuilly, complains, though there’s a small, embarrassed smile on his face. “It’s not all that.”

“It is too,” Bossuet says, stepping up and putting an arm around Feuilly’s shoulders. “And Bahorel is doing well standing in for Courfeyrac’s duties.”

“Ah we’re all taking on extra things,” Bahorel says, shoving Bossuet slightly. “All the men are.”

“Now who doesn’t want commendation?” Prouvaire asks, resting a hand on Bahorel’s shoulder.

“You all deserve comendation for getting this journey underway as quickly and efficiently as you have,” Valjean says, walking up to the group, Cosette, Eponine, and Marius following behind him. “The winds did keep us behind a day more than I’d have liked, but we got here in a good amount of time.”

“Do we go in at daybreak?” Bahorel asks, feeling his heart racing, thinking it hasn’t really slowed down properly since Javert first took Jehan. “Or wait until sundown?”

“I have a strategy in mind,” Valjean says. “And I’d like to hear what all of you think. Though it involves waiting a day, I’m afraid.”

“A day?” Bahorel asks. “Why?”

“My thought was to send Prouvaire and Eponine in tomorrow night when the sun sets,” Valjean explains, and the more he speaks, the more Bahorel hears him keeping the worry out of his voice. He’s an experienced sailor and strategist, and he’s confident in that, but this is different than anything they’ve ever attempted, and undoubtedly more personal. “Blend in with the evening tavern crowd to try and glean information about the goings on.”

“Even if they’re trying to keep it locked up, people will have seen them arrive, and there are plenty of sailors on Commodore Enjolras’ two ships, not to mention Javert’s,” Prouvaire adds. “Sailors and townspeople both might have loose lips.”

“Precisely,” Fantine adds, stepping in. “And it might also help us locate where they’re being held.”

“We can do that easily,” Eponine adds, looking over at Prouvaire. “We’re tucked over on the side of the island, and we can take one of the longboats in and avoid the harbor, especially if it’s dark.”

“An excellent plan,” Bahorel says, smiling at Valjean. “I know my own propensity for rushing in, and this situation was no exception, especially not given the circumstances. But it is difficult to wait.”

“I know,” Valjean says, squeezing Bahorel’s shoulder. “But if all goes well tomorrow night, we can go in two nights from now and make our stand. I think again, after sunset.”

“They won’t expect it,” Feuilly says. “It gives us the advantage.”

“Precisely,” Valjean says, nodding at his nephew, fondness in his eyes, before turning to Joly. “Joly, if you could be aboard the _Misericorde_ and ready when we bring the three of them back, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to have them aboard here initially, before releasing them back to the _Liberte_ , and they may need your attention.”

“Of course,” Joly says, a shadow of worry passing through his eyes, but still maintaining a bright, determined expression, and Bahorel once again admires his friend’s calm head in a crisis; for all of his worrying over his health and their own, Joly never wavers in his work. “I brought extra supplies with me in case of their injury, and in case of injury during any subsequent battles.”

“Always dependable, Jollly,” Cosette says, grinning at him.

Joly grins back, bowing slightly in response.

A moment of silence wedges between all of them, the outlines of Jamaica visible in the darkness as Bahorel gazes out. As they weighed anchor a few minutes ago, Prouvaire said he felt as if he sensed their friends from here, sensed their safety, but also their pain. Bahorel curls his fist, feeling the hot anger burst into his chest.

“I know we all want to rush in,” Valjean says. “But Fantine and I thought this was the best strategy. If we all agree then we need to spread word to the crews so they’re prepared.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement among them, and Valjean nods, speaking again.

“That leaves who will go ashore with Fantine and myself,” Valjean says, eyes roving over all of them, and Bahorel thinks that devoid of a smile, Valjean looks intimidating. He’s a gentle soul, but there’s restrained fury in every crevice of his face; they’re his family, and he won’t tolerate any action against them. “At first consideration, we thought Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Feuilly, who will go with us directly to retrieve Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac, as well as a few men to fill out our group and stand lookout, and some guarding our longboats. I suspect there will be officers guarding the door, but likely not a great deal in the house, because they want to keep this a secret as much as they’re able, for now.”

“I agree,” Bahorel says. “Granted I was going to argue if I wasn’t allowed, so I’m pleased we’ve cut that step out.”

“Stubborn,” Fantine accuses, fond.

“Absolutely,” Bahorel replies, elbowing her affectionately in the side.

Feuilly and Prouvaire both agree, and Bossuet agrees to hold command over both deck crews, keeping an eye on the rigging and the wood if they fell under fire. In turn, Gavroche agrees to step in as master gunner on the _Liberte_.

“That leaves us with who will captain the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ while we’re ashore should any kind of battle ensue,” Fantine says. “Cosette has already agreed to step in on the Misericorde, and the men agreed. Eponine and Marius, this means you will have to keep a particular eye on Tiena and Chantal should they require it, if Cosette has to step up. If not a proper battle, I’m sure there will at least be an exchange of fire.”

“Of course,” Marius says, sliding a hand down and taking Cosette’s. “We won’t let anything happen to them.”

“Excellent,” Fantine says. “Now, that leaves who will captain the _Liberte_.”

“Actually,” Bossuet says, ushering Grantaire forward. “The crew’s voted on that.”

“Come on R,” Bahorel says, pulling him forward further. “You’re never shy, come off it.”

“Stop, I can walk myself,” Grantaire mutters, smacking his hand away, but he secretly looks pleased.

“He’s the most experienced sailor left aboard on the crew,” Feuilly explains. “And the men voted him in with a majority. And the officers agree.”

“You are a talented sailor, Grantaire,” Valjean says, kind, but his grave expression remains. “And with a great many years at sea on your belt given your father was a pirate himself, in his later years. But this…”

“I know,” Grantaire says, and there’s not a trace of laughter in his voice, but Bahorel does hear something else.

Belief.

It shakes, but it’s there.

“I know I sometimes doubt the work these crews do,” Grantaire continues. “Even if I am a part of it myself. I know sometimes I fail, even if I possess the best intentions but I…” he swallows, and Bahorel sees a mirror of Enjolras’ own light in Grantaire’s eyes. “I cannot, when Combeferre and Courfeyrac are in such danger.” He pauses, meeting Valjean’s gaze. “When Enjolras is in such danger. I can do this.”

“All right,” Valjean says after a moment, grasping Grantaire’s arm in assurance. “We are agreed. I have the utmost faith in you.”

After that they break to rest for the night, the first watch taking their places on deck, though Bahorel thinks there won’t be much rest among any of them tonight, even if he knows they’ll need it for the days ahead. He walks up behind Grantaire, slipping an arm through his, and Grantaire jumps in surprise, then settles.

“We may just make a proper pirate out of you yet, my friend,” Bahorel says as they step back on the deck of the Liberte.

“A _proper_ pirate?” Grantaire asks, raising his eyebrows. “Pray, what does that mean?”

“Principled,” Bahorel tells him, grinning.

“Oh bite your tongue,” Grantaire says, but he’s smiling anyway. “My principle is wine, a well-cooked meal, and if we’re getting poetic, that feeling of the sea breeze in my hair.”

“Mhmm,” Bahorel says, quirking an eyebrow. “Is that why you volunteered to step up as temporary captain?”

“The lot of you have rubbed off on me, and I’ve got the skills,” Grantaire shrugs. “Beside, we’re all in danger aren’t we? I do like all of you just a bit, you know. But only a bit.”

“And you want to do what you can for Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” Bahorel answers. “For Enjolras.”

“Enjolras is contagious,” Grantaire says, and Bahorel laughs.

“I didn’t know a person could be contagious,” he remarks.

“Oh you know what I mean,” Grantaire says. “That look he gets when he soars above the rest of us with his words, the way he says them. It rubs off on a man.”

“So it does,” Bahorel says, more serious now, squeezing Grantaire’s shoulder. “Get some rest, all right my friend?”

Grantaire nods, tapping Bahorel playfully on the cheek as he goes, leaving him alone for only a moment before Prouvaire fills in the absence.

“It’s terrible waiting,” Prouvaire comments. “But it is best. And I think we’re ready. I think we’ve been ready for years, just for this moment. Like destiny, perhaps. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Right you are, my friend,” Bahorel says, watching as some clouds move, a few stars visible now. “Right you are.”


	23. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel argues heatedly with Baron Travers over the new deal he's struck, and starts spiraling, heading toward rock bottom and faced with a terrible decision, and Javert himself faces an unexpected threat from the baron. Michel begs Javert to guard Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac's cell, and Javert has an unexpected conversation with Enjolras, the night filled with memories and a nostalgia Javert cannot erase. The next day the Trio comes face to face with Baron Travers again, the terrible encounter interrupted by the arrival of Valjean, Fantine and the Amis, with Grantaire and Cosette captaining the ships in the harbor. An inevitable confrontation ensues, and when the smoke clears, friends are reunited. Javert, lost and furious and spinning out of control, comes to a conclusion, while Astra takes a courageous step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on this chapter:
> 
> One, you'll see later on that Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac fight with their manacles still on, which is an idea I got from Black Sails. That show seems to do their research, and though it's not as fluid as normal, characters on that show did manage to swing a sword and fire weapons with their hands in manacles, so I'm just gonna run with that idea. 
> 
> Two, you'll see a mention of the Admiralty, which was basically the governing body of the British Navy until I think sometime in the 1960s.
> 
> Andd I think that's all for now!

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 7**

**Kingston, Jamaica.**

Javert hears the carriage wheels crunch against the rocks on the drive, carting Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac off to the jail. He unfreezes, coming down the stairs, watching Michel stare at the closed door as if it might offer answers.

Baron Travers directs Michel into the drawing room and Michel tugs on his sleeve, practically begging him along, and Javert finds he cannot refuse. Astra makes a move to protest, but her father closes the door before she can enter, locking it behind them. Javert hears the distant sound of her running up the stairs with heavy, grief-stricken steps before slamming her bedchamber door shut.

“My daughter has grown most un-ladylike,” Baron Travers comments. “You might want to see to that, Michel.”

“Sir you know I do not have control over how Astra behaves,” Michel says, his voice covered in a thin veneer of respect. “Even if I sought to, it would matter little.”

“A firmer hand might assist,” Baron Travers argues. “More control over the purse strings you let her run so freely with, limiting her outings, that sort of thing.”

“We are not here to discuss Astra,” Michel says, keeping the information that Astra revealed yesterday to himself. “Though she has every right to be upset. You have sent her son, _our_ son, to jail.”

“I must strike a balance between showing no tolerance for piracy and saving both our reputations and Rene's life,” Baron Travers says. “He must be punished for what he has done. He is one of the most wanted pirates in the region, and I can assure that he will watch the rest of that wretched crew pay for their sins with his own eyes when they arrive here. Rene must be broken and put back together according to our rules. It is the only way to save him and ourselves. You do not seem to understand the urgency of this situation. I am being overly kind in allowing you an out for the Combeferre boy, and downright generous in not withdrawing the prison sentence for that wretched privateer’s son, which I gather you are only doing to gain good will from Rene, who does not deserve it.”

Michel turns away, throwing his arms up in frustration.

“I would not call preventing the death of my dearest friend’s son that I swore to protect a kindness,” Michel argues, and despite the growing amount of disagreements with his father in law over the years, Javert’s never seen Michel behave like this.

“Anything other than capital punishment for a pirate is a kindness,” Baron Travers says. “I could have predicted that wretched Combeferre boy would go this way. His father would have too, if he’d lived long enough. But he didn’t, so instead you put his son on the pedestal his dead father left behind him, failing to face facts. You have never been willing to face the truth that he was not a worthy companion for Rene at any juncture. The mulatto child of an extra-marital affair? It was ridiculous from the start.”

Michel goes tight-lipped at the mention of Arthur, the thick silence around him deadly, his fingernails digging into his palms. Just out of the baron’s sight Javert lays a light hand on Michel’s back, bidding him to calm himself.

“How did you make this new deal?” Michel asks, re-directing the conversation. “When I had already secured one? Did you pay Admiral Adams off?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Baron Travers says. “Adams has his own calculations, but he wouldn’t accept anything to ah…influence his decision. Not yet anyway. But Governor Clifford was happy to do so. And he sent orders down to the admiral to change the terms.”

“And if I paid him more?” Michel says, sounding uncomfortable but determined, and the words hit Javert like small bullets of shock, and he recovers his expression. “I find the practice dishonorable, but clearly my influence and my service does not buy me so much as my money will.”

“Nothing buys so much as money, my lad,” Baron Travers says. “Besides, it matters little. I’m afraid Governor Clifford would rather have you as an enemy than me. And I assured him that I would find a way to receive your cooperation.”

“By using Frantz as a bargaining chip,” Michel says, voice rough with restrained anger. “You would take my son from me so that I can save the boy who was essentially my second one.”

“I am not taking Rene from you, Michel,” Baron Travers says, sounding bored. “It’s as I said to Astra, you will be perfectly allowed to see him. But I will be in charge of him.”

“And you share this idea that he is mad?” Michel asks.

“Not hardly,” Baron Travers says. “The boy’s been trouble for years and far more dangerous to everything respectable than you’re willing to admit. But that narrative helps our image with the public doesn’t it? The poor young man from a well-respected family kidnapped and driven to illness by pirates. As well as assisting with gaining custody of him. Did you honestly think I would let you make off to Paris with the only heir to my family line? I’m surprised at you Michel. We used to get along well, you and I.”

Michel doesn’t answer, turning away, and Javert thinks he sees tears in the older man’s eyes.

“You have, I’d say, two or so days to make your decision,” Baron Travers says. “It is entirely up to you. I cannot legally take Rene into my custody without your consent, you see. Hence the…incentive.”

Michel turns to go, still silent, looking back at his father in law when he speaks again.

“I also suggest that you find within yourself the son in law I have known these past years,” Baron Travers says. “He was a bit prone to idealism, to attachment, but could always be steered in the correct direction and became a man worthy of the power he held. The man who knew just how easy it is for even men like us to fall.”

Javert sees Michel’s shoulders tense, but he still doesn’t reply, striding out of the room. Javert makes to follow him, but he’s pulled back by Baron Travers’ hand on his sleeve, tugging forcefully.

“Sir?” he asks in response.

“A quick word, if you would, Captain,” Baron Travers says, an unsettling look in his eyes.

“Whatever you need, Baron Travers,” Javert says, nodding his head.

“You have never talked a great deal about your parentage,” Baron Travers says, hands behind his back as he starts circling Javert.

“There is not much to tell, sir,” Javert says, the lie tasting filthy on his tongue, but it’s well-rehearsed.

“Ah, but I think there is,” Baron Travers answers, stopping in his tracks. “Let me cut to chase: I know you are a gypsy. Or what is the word I’ve heard you call yourselves… _Romani_. And I suspect that's not something you prefer Admiral Adams to know, is it? Nor anyone else in the Admiralty.”

Javert doesn’t answer, he doesn’t move, his eyes locked with the baron’s and he cannot look away. He feels cold, suddenly, the shock settling into his bones.

“You have always been a good soldier, both in service of East India and the Royal Navy,” Baron Travers says. “You did your best with my disobedient grandson, were a decent friend to my son in law. I daresay you have been courageous many times over in this war against piracy. Decorated and with a flawless reputation save…well, that rather erroneous mishap with Valjean and Fantine. But there has always been something about you, the tiniest hint of rebellion that I sensed within.”

“Baron Travers I assure you I…”

“Do not interrupt me, Captain Javert,” Baron Travers says. “I fear that one day you will give into your less than desirable heritage, you see. It is one of those things that is nearly inevitable. Your nature is attuned to it. But if you continue to do as I ask, if you continue to be a good soldier, then I assure you I will keep this piece of information to myself. I will see to your continued rise, despite my own reservations. Am I understood?”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, mouth dry. “Perfectly.”

“Excellent,” Baron Travers replies. “Well, I suspect my son in law may be seeking your counsel. Perhaps you can make him see clearly. I shall see you soon.”

With that it’s clear he’s expected to go, but he feels himself moving slowly, as if his feet will only carry him so quickly. He walks into the foyer, finding it empty, seeing Michel outside the window, waiting on the veranda.

“May we walk?” Javert asks, sounding audibly anxious.

“Yes,” Michel answers, looking pale. “Yes.”

They walk down the drive in silence, and Michel puts his shaking hands in his pockets, looking over at Javert for a moment.

“What did he say to you?” Michel asks.

“It’s nothing,” Javert says, too quickly, and Michel stops in his tracks.

“It is something,” Michel says, concern breaking through his mask of shock.

“Do not worry yourself…”

“He told you he knows you’re Romani,” Michel says, cutting him off, some red flooding back into his cheeks out of anger. “I swear, he…”

“Wait, you knew?” Javert asks. “How?”

“He told us just before he sent Rene off to jail,” Michel says, fury grating into his tone. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. I had no idea…” he stumbles over the words, uncomfortable. They’ve not discussed this at any sort of length since the day Michel found out the truth, there has been perhaps a stray story from his childhood that Michel coaxed out, but nary another mention. “Did he threaten you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Michel,” Javert says, waving him off.

“He did threaten you,” Michel says, voice growing low. “I’ll go speak to him.”

“No,” Javert says, firm. “I mean…” he pauses, swallowing. “It is not my place to tell you what to do, I would only worry for the effect it would have on the current situation.”

Michel falters, expression wilting, but Javert can see he’s made his point.

“Yes,” Michel says, and Javert hears the threat of tears in Michel’s voice again. “I don’t…I should have seen this. Astra was right. She said he wouldn’t allow me to leave with them. And now I suspect Valjean and the pirates will arrive soon. And I don’t…” Michel trails off, words tangled in a knot.

“We will catch them, Michel,” Javert says. “We will.”

“We have underestimated them before,” Michel says. “To our detriment.”

“And for that Valjean and Fantine have grown too confident,’ Javert says. “I know Valjean, Michel. And he’s filled with too much sentiment about this to make tactical decisions.”

“So are we,” Michel mutters, but doesn’t elaborate. He meets Javert’s eyes again. “I know I’ve asked a great deal of you these past few days, Nicholas, but if you’d permit, I want to ask one more thing.

“Whatever you need,” Javert responds.

“I am concerned about the security of Rene, Frantz, and Auden in the cell,” Michel says. “You know as well as I the grudges among both Company and naval men against pirates generally.”

Javert nods, letting him continue.

“I must speak with my father in law further, and perhaps Admiral Adams,” Michel says. “To see if there’s any way of keeping my deal, or perhaps a meeting of Andrew’s and mine. And I…I wondered if you might guard the cell for the night.”

“All right,” Javert says after a moment’s pause. “I’ll go after sunset.”

“Thank you,” Michel says, putting both hands in the crooks of Javert’s elbows. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“It’s nothing,” Javert says, shaking his head.

“You are far too humble, as always,” Michel says. “Thank you,” he repeats. “For everything.”

“It is only what I owe to you.”

Michel looks at Javert for a long minute, a soft smile breaking onto his face. He reaches a hand out, placing it against Javert’s face, a fatherly love in his touch.

As he walks back toward his house a few minutes later, hoping to gain a few hours rest before going to the jail, Javert considers that never setting foot on the Navigator might have been better for his sanity.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. A few hours later.**

There’s a hush in the air as Javert approaches the jail; there’s barely any noise from the nearby houses, the streets deserted in the most recent wave of near unbearable humidity. Through the rows of houses and shops he sees the full moon’s light spread across the water, distinguishing its blue from the blackened sky above, stars glittering across the canvas. Nights like these are his favorite. The stars have made him feel safe since he was a small lad sailing around on privateer and eventually, pirate ships with his parents. There was order in the way they formed the same constellations, surety in the way they guided ships across the sea, small pinpricks of light chasing away some of the uncertainty night brought. As a child his life was anything but certain, and he’d taken refuge in the stars, taken refuge in the quiet, finding the sun too bright and the day too loud. But tonight a heaviness sits in his chest. There’d been a certain order to his life for the past twenty-one years, and tonight, he finds that all slipping out of his grasp. Certainly there were changes before, and painful ones; Arthur’s death, the boys running away. Even his own switch to the navy from East India brought about adjustments. But still, all had fallen back into place, the same routine, but variations. Yet at the center of it all, there was one sure point, a single thing he always knew, even if it took some time, that he could count on.

Michel.

But now Michel was showing up intoxicated to his rooms. Michel was disobeying and arguing with his father in law. Michel was breaking and cracking in half. Gone were the stoic but affectionate smiles and the shoulder clasps, replaced with tears and anger and his hand desperately clinging to Javert’s coat. When he stepped onto Michel’s ship all those years ago, he hadn’t counted on having the slightest affection for anyone aboard, hadn’t counted on any sense of belonging. He’d planned to do his duty. He’d planned to make a career and stay honorable in the service of king and country. He’d planned to be irreproachable.

He’d done those things.

But despite himself, grew to care for a select few people. Grew to love them, if he dared think the messy word. His mother was the only person he’d ever truly felt that for, but that all turned to bitterness and resentment. To betrayal.

But he will not betray his duty, his pledge, his respect for the law, for any sort of human weakness. Those things were more important than any feelings he possessed.

Yet here he was, standing in front of Rene’s jail cell at the desperate request of Michel. He was not defying his commanding officer’s orders, but Admiral Adams also didn’t send him here. The jail is only half-full, but Baron Travers had the three of them placed in the gallows holding cell, no doubt as a reminder of his own power over their lives. There’s a solitary chair outside the cell, separated a bit from the others, and sits down in it, noticing from the first how bright Orion is tonight.

“Javert?” Enjolras asks, and Javert jumps, startled at the voice.

“Go back to sleep Rene,” Javert says, his words layered with cold but with a gentleness underneath he cannot cut out. 

“I wasn’t asleep,” Enjolras answers, though Javert keeps his back to the cell, he hears Enjolras rustling, extricating himself from between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “We’re sleeping in shifts.”

“Shifts?”

“In case any of the officers decided they wanted to start something under the cover of night,” Enjolras explains.

“Also a sailor’s habit, I’d wager,” Javert says, surprised at his own conversational tone.

“Why are you here?”

“Your father sent me,” Javert says.

“Why?”

 “As a protection,” Javert replies. “Against anyone who might attempt to exact revenge on you, as you just mentioned yourself,” Javert answers. “I’ve told you before, boy. You should be more grateful for your father.”

Enjolras sits down against the bars, and Javert turns his head just slightly, seeing his profile; blond hair still tied back but tangled, face pale, a streak of dirt across his cheek from sleeping in the cell.  He remembers the boy who’d fallen hard to the deck as they play fought, getting right back up and insisting he was all right, eyes full of a spirit Javert found himself jealous of. The spirit remains despite the circumstance, but the scenario could not be any more different.

“Javert, I…” Enjolras tries.

“I’m not particularly interested in talking to you, Rene,” Javert says, growing harsher. “I have very little to say.”

“I’d say the opposite of that is true,” Enjolras replies, annoyance brimming in his voice.

“I have very little to say that would result in any sort of productive conversation,” Javert answers. “Nothing has changed between us, nothing has changed in this entire circumstance. So do kindly spare me your righteousness for tonight.”

“You’re right, nothing has changed,” Enjolras says, pausing a moment before speaking. “And tomorrow, we will be on very different sides of a fight. I do not make light of that in any sense. I couldn’t. But tonight, at least, I thought we might at least be honest with each other. For a few hours.”

Javert turns so he faces the cell, eyes trailing over it before he answers. Combeferre and Courfeyrac lay on the small straw mattress a few feet away from where Enjolras sits, Courfeyrac’s arm looped protectively through Combeferre’s even in sleep, Baron Travers’ threat no doubt foremost in all of their minds. Enjolras leans with his side against the bars, facing Javert.

“I do not believe your father will choose to send Frantz to the noose,” Javert says, giving in, but keeping his voice stiff. “I don’t think he could.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras says, but it’s not a tone of disbelief. It is, Javert suspects, the belief that there is yet a way out of this. Valjean will come, Javert is certain. But in his mind, a rescue does not lay in the cards. Enjolras doesn’t continue, not giving anything away. He turns his head, looking over at his two friends, a gentle smile curving his lips upward, laced with a pronounced melancholy.

For just a moment, the years fall away from Javert’s eyes, and he sees not the young man who shoved him off as he ran full-speed away from Port Royal, not the pirate he encountered on the _Liberte_ , but that shy boy he saw that night so many years ago on the _Navigator_ , who approached him with his toy sword in hand. He wipes the small smile off his face as Enjolras turns back around, feeling the familiar anger tie itself around his heart, pulling tight.

“You wouldn’t be here in this situation,” Javert begins, the air of a lecture in his voice. “We would not be talking to each other through jailhouse bars if you had simply behaved. But you couldn’t do that. Not only did you run away, but you became a pirate, walking around in this,” he gestures at the red coat. “Flashy nonsense like the rest of your thieving crew.”

“Valjean gave me this,” Enjolras says, petulant but still far less angry than Javert expected when he approached the cell.

“Is that how he made you stay?” Javert asks. “With the promise of gifts? Riches?”

“You know both myself and dare I say it, Valjean, too well to suggest such a thing,” Enjolras says, firm. “You know our pledge, our ideals, mock them though you may. No, he gave this to me on the occasion of my being voted captain of the _Liberte_.”

“You have put your trust in the wrong man, Rene,” Javert insists. “He is not…”

“A good moral example?” Enjolras finishes. “You don’t even believe yourself.”

“I certainly do,” Javert says, tripping over the words. “He’s a pirate.”

“And a good man,” Enjolras says. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“That he let you go,” Enjolras explains. “That day Captain Robins sailed up to help us. That night on Nassau.”

“I simply lacked understanding as to why,” Javert protests. “But then I figured it out. It had nothing to do with him at all. He knew _you_ wouldn’t wish me dead.”

There’s a silence before Enjolras responds, as if contemplating his answer.

“I wouldn’t want you dead,” Enjolras says, voice nearing a whisper. “But that’s not why. And you know it. You know he’s right, don’t you? You just won’t admit to it.”

“I would suggest you not waste your time trying to convince me of Valjean’s merits,” Javert says, hearing the thinness of his own voice, pushing down the internal conflict he’s long felt down further until it can’t claw at him anymore. “You chose him. You chose all of them. Tossed away everything you were given and for what? It is a waste, Rene.”

“I chose the path I was on before I ever met Valjean,” Enjolras says, meeting Javert’s eyes now, the clouds shifting away from the moon and casting stripes of light into the cell. “He simply opened the door so I could follow it.”

“Your father came to my rooms last night,” Javert says, abrupt. “Crying, drunk, desperate. Having convinced himself he was not a good man. I have seen him upset. But I never recall seeing him like that. But no, you see Valjean as a good man instead, when there’s a much better example standing right in front of you.”

“It seems we’re talking about everyone in this conversation aside from you,” Enjolras says, a familiar sadness overlaying his words, reminding Javert of the night they sat on the rocks near the shore, Javert confessing that he was Romani.

“There’s nothing to say about me,” Javert replies.

“You’re angry I left,” Enjolras says, still calm, though some irritation slices into his tone. “Just say it, Javert. Stop pretending it isn’t true.”

A memory of breaking the wooden toy sword in two and tossing it out into the ocean burgeons in Javert’s memory. But just like the stubborn half that kept returning to shore, so Enjolras was here in his life again, his absence no longer a ghost following him around and taking the light out of Michel’s eyes. He’d never been truly gone, but now his real presence makes something in Javert’s chest burst, the anger no longer tapped down and restrained.

“Of course I was,” Javert snaps, keeping voice low so as not to wake the other two. “Are you pleased I’m admitting it? Does it give you some sort of victory to know I haven’t been able to rid myself of that wretched affection for you? I imagine you’re happy at that weakness.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen, looking childlike, before narrowing again in his own anger.

“Love is not a weakness, Javert,” Enjolras presses. “And that was always the problem with you. You loved _against your better judgement_. With restraint, with condition.”

“It is not so easy,” Javert answers, looking away from him.

“Love is an act of courage,” Enjolras says. “Perhaps even an act of rebellion. But once you dedicate yourself to it, it becomes more natural. Never simple. But natural.”

“And you think these pirates you know,” Javert says, hearing his voice quiver. “You think they know something about love?”

“Why do you think we do what we do?” Enjolras asks, soft again.

“Laziness,” Javert begins. “Lack of any sort of moral compass. Selfishness. I could go on.”

“You know that’s not true,” Enjolras says. “Otherwise what Valjean did wouldn’t bother you. What’s happening here now, in this moment, wouldn’t bother you. The world is complicated, the politics are complicated, tactics are complicated. But love is the base of why we do what we do.”

“Stealing from the rich to give to the poor?” Javert asks.

“Among other things.”

“Well, I’m afraid there’s no reprieve in the law for an act of _love_ ,” Javert says, sarcastic.

“Perhaps that’s a problem with the law, then,” Enjolras replies, pushing a stray strand of hair behind his ear.

“You have truly lost your senses,” Javert says, huffing.

“Well I’m of the mind that people who make their living off the backs of selling other human beings like cattle have lost theirs,” Enjolras answers. “In this case, I’m the one who could go on. Don’t you see, Javert? This war, the lives lost, wouldn’t be if those in power didn’t mistreat and abuse. I take no pleasure in watching any sailor fall.”

Javert doesn’t answer, looking out past the door again, where Orion still shines bright. The _Hunter_ , they call the constellation. Here he is, one of the people Javert hunted for years behind jail bars, yet there is very little about it that feels like a success. In the silence, Enjolras speaks again.

“Do you truly think I’m a monster?”

It’s not really the question of the man before him, but the question of the six-year-old from long ago.

“Does it matter to you if I do?”

“It won’t change my mind about anything,” Enjolras answers, honest. “But wherever we end up, I’d wish that at least for the next few hours, you didn’t think so. Tomorrow, we go back to our places.”

“Go to sleep Rene,” Javert says in response, evading.

“I already told you,” Enjolras says. “We’re sleeping in shifts.”

“And you know that no one will trifle with me.”

Enjolras surveys him for a moment, distrustful, but the exhaustion writes itself across his face, and he moves away from Javert, eyes running over Orion. Before he lays down, he looks back at Javert once more, and the way the light shines through the cell into the darkness, Enjolras almost looks like an apparition, like the version of him Javert saw around every corner after he ran away, vanishing in a wisp of smoke as soon as Javert approached.

“Do you remember that day we were playing and I wore that red bandanna I found?” Enjolras asks.

_But why do I have to be the pirate?_

_Because you promised me long ago that we would take turns._

_Two wooden swords crossed, Enjolras face solemn and determined even as he releases a peal of childish laughter at Javert’s impression._

_Beware me, pirate._

“Arthur said it suited you,” Javert says. “I remember.”

Enjolras doesn’t speak again, moving away from Javert and laying down next to Courfeyrac, who shifts in his sleep, making room on the straw.

Then, Javert’s left with nothing but his own thoughts and the silent stars, which tonight, offer him no guidance.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica. The next evening.**

The next evening, Baron Travers sends Michel and Javert to retrieve the trio. Javert’s presence kept people away at night, but there’d been gawkers during the day, driven away by the jail guards. Michel’s stride is slower, his posture hunched, with very little care given to his appearance; his hats sits askew, his uniform coat wrinkled, and a button undone on his waistcoat.

“Have you made a choice?” Javerts asks when the silence on their walk to the jail grows unbearable.

“There was hardly a choice at all,” Michel answers, the dying sunlight making him blink as it moves directly in their line of sight. “I cannot…I _will_ not see Frantz sent to the noose.”

“So Baron Travers will have custody of Rene, then?”

Michel pauses, and the hesitation makes Javert nervous. “For now. But when all this dies down, well. We shall see.”

“You would break the terms of the deal?” Javert asks.

“It is not the deal I agreed to,” Michel says. “And I…I will do what it takes to correct it. Rene is not his son, he is mine. And I have committed enough sins in allowing what I did, and I hate that I must commit more to save Frantz’s life.”

They arrive at the jail before Michel elaborates on what exactly what he means when he says he’ll correct it, but Javert sees an unnerving flash of his son in his eyes, faint, the defiance ringing familiar. The trio sits up as they approach, and Michel unlocks the door.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asks Michel without preamble.

“To your grandfather,” Michel says, not elaborating. “All three of you.”

There’s the smallest sliver of fear in Enjolras’ eyes; even if they’re counting on a rescue, as Javert suspects, he clearly worries that if Michel chooses one way, Baron Travers will have Combeferre executed before Valjean arrives Michel sees it as well, answering his son’s unspoken question.

“I am not going to let Frantz be sent to the noose,” Michel informs them. “I swear it.”

The meaning of that hangs heavy in the air, but to Javert’s surprise, none of the trio responds, and it’s a quiet journey to the Enjolras home. There’s three guards at the front door and two more in the entrance hall, but the house is otherwise empty. The word about Rene being the Avenging Angel would no doubt spread, but if they could control it with keeping gossip down among the men, Javert knows that’s best. They walk down the hallway to the drawing room, the door standing open. Javert sees Admiral Adams sitting in a chair and talking with Baron Travers. Astra sits several feet away, purple smeared under eyes from lack of sleep.

“Ah you’ve arrived,” he says. “Shut the door, if you would Michel.” He gazes at the trio, eyes narrowing when he sees that only their wrists, and not their ankles are manacled. “You did not see fit to manacle them fully?”

“I didn’t find it necessary,” Michel says, and Javert hears that defiance again, knowing Michel may well pay for even this hint of insubordination. “They are weaponless.”

“You have not read the stories of your own son’s violence then,” Baron Travers says. “Or the violence of these other two criminals.”

“Afraid, are you _sir_?” Courfeyrac says, spitting the word.

“Not hardly,” Baron Travers says. “I simply know what brutes are capable of,” he says, eyes landing pointedly on Combeferre, who answers with a glare so cold Javert sees the baron pull back just slightly before turning to Michel.

 "Well, Michel," Baron Travers asks. "Have you made your decision?"

Michel looks over at Enjolras and Combeferre before answering, and Javert sees the agony written into his expression.

"I will sign the papers," Michel answers, tearing his eyes away and focusing on his father in law.

"Excellent," Baron Travers says, looking satisfied. "The doctor has already signed them, indicating Rene's...condition, and that he is not capable of caring for himself. The magistrate's signature is there also. All we require is your own."

Michel walks over to the table where the papers lay, silence following behind him. Even Astra doesn't speak, resting her head in her hands as if she cannot bear to watch, but Javert sees her eyes flitting out the window every few seconds, as if she's waiting for something. Michel's back is to him now, but Javert sees Michel swipe quickly at one of his eyes as he picks up the quill with his other hand and signs the paper, leaving a shaky signature, the paper soaking up his loss, a far cry from his usual well-formed, deliberate handwriting.

"There is no need to be so upset," Baron Travers says, and Michel blushes in embarrassment, given Admiral Adams' presence in the room. "It is what's best, you know."

Michel isn’t given a chance to protest as Baron Travers’ attention moves and focuses on Enjolras.

“Those shackles are uncomfortable are they?” Baron Travers asks, his voice oddly soft. “I could free you from more than those if you would simply do as I asked.”

“What you ask is the abandonment of everything and everyone I love,” Enjolras answers, voice steady. “Everything I have fought for. I will not do it.”

At this, Javert watches Baron Travers pull something out of his pocket. It’s an old crinkled piece of paper covered in the messy paintings of a child; it looks like the Enjolras and Travers family crests combined into one, and Javert realizes it was likely done by Enjolras’ hand.

“You forget that you loved me once,” Baron Travers says, and there’s a strange thread of regret in his voice. “You made me this when you were five, I believe. Gave it to me so proudly.”

“I remember,” Enjolras says, voice husky, but he does not waver. He does not blink.

“I remember the day you were born you know. I was there, waiting. Thrilled at the prospect of a grandson. I only treated you the way I did so that I might keep you focused, that I might see you put your talents and your lineage to good use. You have never let me handle you gently, Rene.”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, standing stock still as his grandfather puts his hand on his cheek, flinching at the contact. Out of the corner of his eye, Javert sees Combeferre take a step forward, but Michel pulls him back before Baron Travers notices.

“You were meant for better than a life of filth both intangible and,” Baron Travers says, eyes lingering on a streak of dirt across Enjolras’ cheek. He wets his thumb, swiping at the dirt. “Not.”

“I found the life I was meant for,” Enjolras says, voice hardening, and in tandem, Javert sees all traces of nostalgia vanish from the baron’s eyes. “And it is far from anything I’d call filth.”

“You won’t repent then,” Baron Travers says. “You will not even make this a bit easier for yourself. You will not apologize for your transgressions.”

“There is _no_ part of this where I will beg for your forgiveness,” Enjolras says, blue eyes lit with something Javert suspects cannot be contained, which is the trouble. “And I know better than to expect you to ask for mine.”

"On your knees you wretched boy," Baron Travers says in response, standing straight, but Enjolras still stands taller by an inch or more.

"I am _not_ a boy."

"You are nothing but."

"I will not kneel, _sir_ ," Enjolras says.

"Care to test me? All right." Baron Travers nods at Admiral Adams, who points his pistol at Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “Down.”

Javert watches Enjolras lock eyes with his grandfather as he drops. The moment he's down, his grandfather tips his chin up with one finger, still not breaking the gaze.

"Good lad," he breathes, but the guns is still trained on Combeferre and Courfeyrac. He moves his hand from Enjolras’ face, bending down to grasp his lapels. “Do you feel mighty now, Avenging Angel?”

"Remove the gun, I did as you asked."

"No. Keeping them there will assure you continue to do so."

“Father, please,” Enjolras hears his mother say, desperate and frightened but with an underlying current of electric anger. “This is your grandson. He is my _son_.”

“Quiet, Astra,” his grandfather says. “The only reason his blood is still in his body is because is because it belongs to me.” His gaze moves from his daughter to his son in law, and Michel’s face pales. “Now, Michel, we are going to show Rene just how worthless his captaincy is. Divest him of his....regalia, starting with the coat.”

Javert watches Michel stare at the knife his father in law holds out to him.

"What are you asking of me?" Michel asks.

"It is not a difficult concept to grasp, Michel," Baron Travers says. "Or was I mistaken in your intelligence? I said divest him of his filthy pirate garb."

“What is the knife for?” Michel asks, but Javert already knows.

“To cut off the coat,” Baron Travers says, frustrated. “It is not simply enough to take it away; it must be destroyed.”

"For what purpose?" Michel asks, swallowing back the insubordinate tone.

"If you wish him be subdued and return to his former life, you must destroy the things that held him to the one he leads now," Baron Travers says. He turn to his grandson. "I imagine the coat was a gift, was it not, Rene? From that villainous Valjean, I expect, given how tightly you cling to it."

"A far better man than you could ever pretend to be," Enjolras says, eyes staring at the floor.

Baron Travers' face reddens and he steps forward as if to strike his grandson, but Michel's words interrupt him.

"No," Michel says, abrupt. "I will not."

"You are disobeying me?"

"I am a grown man, who is the commander of two ships," Michel says, cold. "I believe I am allowed to disagree with you, Andrew." He turns to Admiral Adams. "Excuse our family strife, Admiral Adams. We do apologize for it."

Admiral Adams nods but does not protest the governor's actions. Javert was glad his commanding officer wasn’t known to accept bribes, but he could not move past the fact that the governor who held power over them did. He’d known it occurred, but he’d seen it so baldly admitted before yesterday.

"Captain Javert," Baron Travers says, holding the knife out to him now. "If you would be so kind as to do what my son in law refuses, I would appreciate it. I'd like to think you have not grown as soft as he has. That you understand how we will save my foolish, dangerous grandson from his own destruction."

"I do not think anything can be achieved by cruelty," Michel says, and Javert feels every word land like judgement upon him.

"Perhaps consider the cruelties your own son has committed then," Baron Travers says. "Pirates are well known for torturing their victims."

"No," Enjolras protests. "I have never done that and I never will. That is a lie spread by people like you who seek to turn the narrative in their favor."

"Quiet," the baron says. "Well, captain?"

Javert remembers the governor's hot breath in his ear two days ao, the powerful tug on his sleeve despite his age.

_I know you are Romani. And I suspect that's not something you prefer Admiral Adams to know, is it?_

He looks over at the admiral, who gazes back, expectant. He looks at Michel, who begs him silently to resist. _But it will be worse if the governor does it himself,_ Javert thinks. _And he will tell Admiral Adams the truth._ He puts his hand out, accepting the knife.

"It should do to cut through worn-out material like that," Baron Travers says, sniffing. “I’m sure it was cheap enough in the first place.”

“Andrew I really must protest subjecting both Nicholas and Rene to this,” Michel says, voice strained.

“Captain Javert knows his duty,” Baron Travers says, not sparing his son-in-law a glance. “Something you seem to have forgotten.”

Feeling their eyes on him, Javert reaches for the collar of Enjolras's red coat from the back, pulling it taught. He feels Enjolras tremble, unsure if the involuntary motion is spurred more by rage or sadness.

“Stay still Rene,” he grumbles, the sound gentler than he wishes.

He places the knife against the collar, tightening his grip. He slices down, the fabric fraying.

_Will you play swords with me, sir?_

He cuts down further, the collar splitting apart.

_Rene grabs his hand, pulling him enthusiastically up the stairs so Javert might see his room._

He cuts again, halfway down the back.

_I want you to play with me. You still will, won’t you? I can even be the pirate, sometimes, we can switch._

Rip.

_Picking the sleeping boy up from the sand, his small hand curling around the edge of his coat, trusting him._

Rip.

_The tap of the wooden sword against his own. Later, the sound of metal on metal. Teacher and student, Rene’s steps and maneuvers echoes of his own, but bolder._

Rip.

_Frantz’s voice. You know René looks at you a bit like a brother, right?”_

Rip.

_Rene’s voice again. Javert, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage just as Frantz shouldn’t be ashamed of his._

One final slice and the coat splits in half, revealing the white shirt beneath.

 _Michel’s voice._ _But I would bid you both to remember the past you share. To remember that you were once like brothers. That you loved one another_

He must cut the sleeves, Javert realizes. He cannot simply slide it off with Enjolras’ hands manacled. He steps around to the front, now on his knees as well, and he can't help but glance at Enjolras's face; though the tears have yet to fall, they look like shards of watery glass in his eyes, his face colored with visible heat, cheeks flushed with blood.

_12-year-old Rene gazing at him, betrayal in his eyes, the skin of his arm purpling._

_Why would you let him do that?_

Enjolras runs a hand over a silver ring on his left hand as Javert takes hold of the sleeve. _Liberte_ , it reads. He’s noticed similar ones on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s hands. Javert takes hold of one sleeve, cutting it in one swift motion, some of the gold buttons clattering to the floor.

Still, the tears don’t fall, but Enjolras’ eyes shine with a light that makes Javert’s hands shake.

He moves to the other sleeve, the sound of the fabric ripping loud in his ears, and then he feels something wet on his hands.

A tear.

Javert looks at his hand, the water running off his palm and onto the floor. He looks at Enjolras, who breathes in deep, controlling himself before looking at Javert, his eyes filled with a hurt fury that strikes Javert in the chest, and as their eyes meet, with one final slice the coat falls apart entirely, laying in pieces on the floor. They’re both shaking now, but Enjolras still looks so solid, so sure, even as Javert feels two parts of himself warring and ripping him in half; it’s all he can do to steady himself. The last bits of sunlight stream through the window, and Enjolras’ hair catches it, gold dripping through the long locks, illuminating them. Starlight always bounced off, Javert’ remembers, as if the boy was made for the brilliant light of the day, waiting patiently through the inevitable night before shedding it off as the sun rose again, sharing the sky with the stars before banishing them, a burst of red-orange hues lighting the horizon on fire.

Shame creeps into Javert’s veins and he steps back, the utter silence of the room growing unbearable.

“Rene, I…” Javert says, the words slipping from his mouth without his permission.

“Do not apologize to him Captain Javert,” Baron Travers interrupts what might have been an apology, though even Javert himself isn’t sure. “Do not give into his pathetic display of emotion. Remember what he has done. Remember he has broken countless laws. Remember that he is a thief. Remember that he is a pirate. Remember that he is a murderer who has killed your fellow officers,” the baron pauses, lingering on the words. “Remember that he threw in his lot with the man and woman for whom you’ve searched for years. Do not believe for a moment he is capable of caring for you in light of all of this.”

The center of Javert’s heart remains soft, but the edges turn to stone at the baron’s words, and he steps back from Enjolras, straightening and looking away, anger pushing into his veins and mixing oddly with the guilt and the shame and the ache. He hears Enjolras’ voice, soaked in disappointment, challenging him.

_You could never dream of being the sort of person Valjean is. Or Fantine for that matter. I thought so, once. I thought the world of you. But then you forsook me. Forsook Frantz. Forsook your own emotions to make sure you didn’t sully your place in the eyes of those with authority over you. Forsook them out of fear._

“The rest of it should go,” Baron Travers says, cutting into the memory. “All the jewelry, the sash, the hat.”

“You have done enough,” Combeferre says, and Javert sees Admiral Adams raise his pistol again. “You know what that coat meant and you just ripped it apart, didn’t you? Like you do everything.”

Baron Travers turns, eyes flashing. “One more word from you, and I promise you will not live to tell the tale, boy. No matter that Michel has seen fit to save your worthless life.”

Javert watches Courfeyrac gently take Combeferre’s sleeve, tugging on it, his own eyes wet as he looks at the ripped pieces of red fabric laying on the floor. The motion works, and Combeferre goes silent again, his gaze settling on Enjolras, his breaths shallow.

“Father stop,” Astra says, stepping forward. “You are being cruel and you are being hateful and I will not stand for you to treat my son like this anymore, do you understand? No more.”

Baron Travers spins on his heel, raising his hand out of what looks like reflex; Javert’s certainly never seen him raise his hand to his daughter, but the red in his face speaks to a rage that controls all of his actions, and he doesn’t stop himself. But before the baron’s hand connects with Astra’s cheek, Michel slides in between them, catching his father in law’s wrist.

Michel opens his mouth to speak, but before he can there’s the sound of a scuffle near the front door, and the sound of people hitting the floor. They all turn, hearing a silence and then footsteps before the doors to the drawing room come bursting open, five people stepping inside.

“Well,” Bahorel says, drawing out his own pistol, and next to him, Prouvaire, Feuilly, and Fantine do the same. Only Valjean leaves his, hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass as his eyes land on Enjolras, still kneeling at his grandfather’s feet among the pieces of his tattered red coat. “I believe you’ve been expecting us?”

* * *

At the sound of Bahorel’s voice, Enjolras turns, a wave of relief crashing down over his head at the sight of them. Admiral Adams begrudgingly lowers his pistol with four of them pointed at him in return. Enjolras watches Fantine and Feuilly seize Combeferre and Courfeyrac before Michel or Javert can draw their weapons, pulling them behind the group. Before Enjolras can get a proper look he feels his grandfather snatch at his collar, yanking him forward, and it’s all he can do to stay on his knees and not hit the floor.

“They are not the answer to whatever prayers you whispered through your jail bars,” Baron Travers says. “Do not believe for a second they are your way out of here, Rene. There is not a way out.”

“You are exceedingly incorrect on that count, Baron Travers,” Valjean says, finally speaking, and Enjolras hears anger reverberating through his voice. “I would bid you to let go of Rene. Now.”

“You would speak to me?” Baron Travers says, and Enjolras sees the scowl marring his face. “You are _nothing_. And soon, I promise you, there will be a noose fitted especially for you and the filth who call you their captain.”

“I try not to give my feelings of hate credence,” Valjean says, and Enjolras hears a growl in his voice. “But you may very well be the exception.”

“Valjean,” Javert says, stepping up, hand on his own pistol. “I would suggest you back down and hand yourselves in. It’s over.”

“It is not over in the least,” Fantine says, stepping closer to Admiral Adams as he makes a move for his pistol, and he moves his hand away. Enjolras glances up, his grandfather’s hands still grasping his shirt, seeing Fantine meet his mother’s eyes for the briefest second, giving her an encouraging smile that only Michel and Astra herself take notice of. “The upper hand is no longer yours.”

At one gesture from Valjean they all step closer, their weapons pointed out; Fantine’s at Admiral Adams, Prouvaire’s at Michel, and Feuilly’s at Javert.

“Back away from your grandson, _sir_ ,” Bahorel says, stepping toward Baron Travers, who has nothing but a single pistol on his belt. He does let go, moving away a few steps. “None of you move one inch.”

“You preach such morality and yet come here to threaten us,” Michel says, but there’s less of an edge to his voice now.

“Nice to see you again, commodore,” Bahorel says. “There would be no need for the threat had you not brought them here in the first place. I’m merely making good on a promise.”

“How dare…” Enjolras hears his grandfather try, but at Valjean’s quietly furious glance, for once, he falls quiet.

Thick silence blankets the room, and Enjolras thinks fleetingly of the way the fog hangs over the sea at sunrise, orange and pink reflecting off the blue. He sees Valjean’s boots approaching him, sees Valjean standing tall above him, and his breath hitches in his chest, unable to look up at him. Bright, sharp images of Valjean giving him the coat, a proud smile on his face, mixes with stained, faded, watercolor images of Javert in his early twenties, engaging him in a game of wooden swords. He hadn’t expected the coat to matter so much; he’s attached to so few material things. But it _did_ matter, the clothing they all wore like an armor, a physical representation of the lives they’d shed and the ones they’d all taken on together. Enjolras feels the pressure of tears behind his eyes, but no moisture appears.

Valjean kneels down on the floor with him among the tattered, ruined pieces of the coat. Enjolras feels Valjean’s gentle hand lift his chin slightly so they’re at eye level, but Enjolras keeps his gaze down so that even if he now sees Valjean’s face in his peripheral, he doesn’t look him in the eye.

“Rene, please look at me,” Valjean says. _Do not feel ashamed_ is what he doesn’t say aloud. Finally, Enjolras does, and his mentor’s eyes are a washed in kindness. No anger, no frustration, no shame. There is love without condition and for a second, Enjolras is overwhelmed by it, overwhelmed by his friends, his _family_ standing up for him with that same kind of love that would exist no matter what storm came.

“My boy,” Valjean says, his affection so clear in every syllable that Enjolras can barely take it.

 _My boy_ , he hears his Michel’s voice from years ago say, returning from a month long journey.

 “I…” Enjolras tries, feeling the pressure from earlier behind his eyes gathering again.

Valjean responds silently, tapping a warm, reassuring finger under Enjolras’ chin with a smile before helping him up from the floor. Valjean meets Astra’s eyes, and though he almost misses it, Enjolras sees her mouth an inaudible _thank you_ before he looks away again. No one seems to know what’s next, so Valjean takes advantage of the moment, pulling the second sword off his belt, taking Enjolras’ hand and laying it flat, placing the handle of the sword in his palm. At first, Enjolras cannot quite take hold; he flashes back to a few days ago, the doctor, his father, and Javert pressing him down, attempting to bleed him, trying to convince him he was mad.

_I'm here to help you, René. So that perhaps one day you might recover from this ordeal. From these violent actions. But it will take time for treatment. And it will be easier with your cooperation._

They kept talking about his violence.

 _His_ violence.

But never about theirs.

He saw it, that world off in the distance, where what they sought wasn’t won by the swing of a sword. He saw glimpses of it in the present, but they were not free of the necessity of violence.

Not yet.

His hand twitches, and Valjean’ curls his fingers around the hilt, holding them there until he feels Enjolras’ grasp it firmly, a shot of renewed confidence running through his veins. He feels cracked, as if the pieces of himself don’t fit together quite as they should.

But he is not broken.

He steps back toward Combeferre and Courfeyrac, seeing Valjean tighten his grip on his pistol as Baron Travers tries stepping forward. Enjolras catches his mother’s eye, seeing tears spilling from overfull eyes, but despite the tension in her shoulders, relief washes across her face. He wants to take her with him, but they cannot, and though he knows they’ll be chased if they make it out, knows an inevitable battle lies ahead, he still hopes that one day, he can find a way to give her the freedom she gave to him so selflessly. Combeferre holds a pistol and Courfeyrac a dirk, their range of movement limited by their still manacled hands, use is not impossible.

“You cannot take my son,” Michel says, voice strangled, and despite it all, Enjolras feels a pang in his chest for his father, for all the changes he cannot quite reach, for the man Enjolras knows he could be. “You cannot take Frantz.”

“They do not belong here,” Prouvaire says, looking at Michel with a powerful empathy, as if he senses the changes in Michel that the older man cannot quite yet make good upon. “They are not safe here. And you know that, Commodore Enjolras.”

“We were expecting you to come,” Admiral Adams says. “Do you honestly think we would let you escape so easily?”

“You clearly did not expect much of us,” Fantine says, voice trembling not from fear, but from love. “You should have known we would never let you take these three from us. Not without an answer. Our _best_ answer. We’ve been near your harbor for two days, and you didn’t even notice.”

“Even if you managed an out,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears the danger in his voice. “We will follow.”

“And we will be ready,” Feuilly says. “You can be certain of that.”

No one dares move, all of them locked in position, and Enjolras watches Valjean’s gaze flit over to the table where the freshly signed papers lay. He’s close enough to make out what they say, and his expression darkens, drawing Fantine’s eyes to the same spot. She reads them as well, using her free hand to seize them from the table despite Baron Travers’ noise of protest, handing them over to Valjean.

“You tried to convince Rene he was mad, and Frantz along with him,” Valjean says, eyes landing on Michel now, who steps back slightly, as if feeling the weight of Valjean’s judgement.

“He is not well,” Michel says, voice weak as if he no longer believes his former argument.

“You just want to convince yourself of that to avoid the truth,” Valjean says, and Enjolras hears the anger coursing through his voice, growing hotter. There is no kind smile playing at his lips, no brightness in his eyes, but only a hint of pity. He directs his gaze to Javert for a moment. “I know you don’t think Rene mad, Javert, and yet you stood by, letting this go on. I can only imagine what you put him through over it. It is a mercilessness I didn’t expect in you, no matter our immense differences.”

“You don’t understand,” Michel argues before Javert can say anything in response. “You do not understand any of this. You convinced Rene, convinced Frantz, into this wretchedness. I have my own sins, but you are part of the cause of this.”

“You son and Frantz made their own choices, and you know them well enough to know they are not the sort to be coerced in matters of ideology,” Valjean says. “You were going to sign him over to your father in law.” Here, Valjean’s expression does soften a fraction, clearly imagining that Michel did this under some sort of duress. “Why?”

“To save Frantz’s life,” Astra says, speaking up before anyone can stop her, meeting Valjean’s eyes again.

“Quiet, Astra,” Baron Travers snaps.

“Don’t speak to her that way,” Fantine says, without thinking, and though no one else seems to think anything of it, Michel’s gaze once again moves between Astra and Fantine. “You would make a father give up his child to save the young man who is like another son? Commodore Enjolras and I agree on very little, but surely you knew what emotions you were playing upon, forcing him to choose. You are crueler even than I imagined.”

“And I am certain that no one in this room has the patience to listen to a pirate lecture us,” Javert says, cutting in, and Enjolras sees memories playing in Javert’s eyes of his last encounter with Fantine, fury seeping into his voice. “Valjean, do control your wench. Or did she forget my threat last time we met? I’m afraid she will garner no sympathy because of her sex.”

“Fantine may speak as she likes,” Valjean responds.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten your threat,” Fantine says, her pistol still trained steadily on Admiral Adams, but her eyes narrow at Javert. “You can be certain of that.”

“Then I expect soon you’ll know I make good on my promises,” Javert says, his voice a snarl.

“Don’t speak to her that way,” Feuilly says, pointing his pistol closer to Javert, who stares back at him, expression impassive, but Enjolras sees the thoughts moving behind his eyes. He breathes in, preparing himself.

Then, a great many things happen at once.

Javert moves first, attempting to wrestle the pistol from Feuilly, who holds tight, pointing the weapon upward and toward the ceiling, an accidental shot going off and lodging into the plaster above.

Valjean ushers them all closer to the doorway, but before Michel, Javert, Baron Travers, or Admiral Adams can chase after them, Enjolras sees Fantine, Bahorel, and Prouvaire reach into their pockets, hurling small round balls that create a cloud of foul smelling odor. Before the haze takes over he sees Valjean toss a small leather bracelet to the ground at Javert’s feet, but in the confusion Javert’s still possesses his eye for detail, and he picks it up, recognizing flashing across his face.

Tiena, Enjolras realizes, must be sailing with them.

“Run!” Valjean shouts, ushering them down the hallway, and Enjolras sees Fantine seize Astra’s arm, pulling her from the cloud of foul stench and pressing her hand before stepping over the unconscious forms of the naval and East India soldiers. Enjolras lingers for a moment, eyes caught on her face.

“Go,” Astra says. “Go, Rene.”

He turns, but he’s just stepped out the door when he hears someone removing a cutlass from a sheath, spinning around and pulling out his own without his usual grace because of the manacles, his blade meeting Javert’s. He hears the coughing and spluttering behind him, but somehow Javert has emerged from the cloud. Javert says nothing, but only glares, the softness and nostalgia from the evening previous lost in the rage Enjolras sees bursting like fireworks in his eyes. He grips the bracelet from his childhood tightly in his free hand.

“To be continued, I expect,” Enjolras says, pulling his blade away, the scrape of steel on steel echoing into the air around them. “I’ll see you soon, Javert.”

Javert makes an attempt to grab him, but Fantine throws one more of the balls at him and Enjolras runs, falling into step with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and behind Valjean and Fantine, Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Feuilly bringing up the rear. He runs until his lungs burn, he runs until they reach the shoreline, guarded by their own men, watching the burst of cannon fire light up the night sky just off in the distance. They’d picked a secluded spot to store the longboats, so they meet only the resistance of a few marines who spotted them, a few odd shouts and clangs of cutlass before they scramble into the longboats, rowing out toward the Misericorde and the Liberte. They’ve caught them by surprise, Enjolras thinks; they’re battling only one ship, though there is another frigate coming over to assist. He sees both naval and East India officers running toward the docks around the corner, but they won’t ready the ships in time to stop them.

“What were those balls you threw at them?” Courfeyrac asks, the first one to speak, still sounding as if he’s catching his breath.

“Stinkpots!” Fantine says, gleeful despite the circumstance. “Heard word of them from Anne Bonny, as it happens. Seemed as good a time as any to try. They cause huge confusion, but no injury.”

“Brilliant,” Combeferre says, impressed.

They reach the two ships after a few more minutes, ducking fire from all sides.

“Fantine, go to the Misericorde, tell Chantal Frantz is all right, and we’ll anchor further out, once we’re safer and she can see him,” Valjean says. “I’m going aboard the Liberte for now, so once we’re out of the harbor, kindly tell Cosette she can stand down and you’ll step in.” He pauses, eyes flitting up toward Cosette, who stands at the helm of the Misericorde, hair flowing loose in the wind under her tricorn, calling out orders like a natural. “But tell her I’m proud of her.”

Fantine smiles wide, grasping his shoulder before taking the ladder thrown down from the _Misericorde_ , climbing up with some of the men as Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac follow Valjean, Feuilly, Prouvaire, and Bahorel up the ladder onto the _Liberte_. He feels a familiar hand pull him up on deck, and Bossuet’s worried smile is the first thing he sees, before he’s distracted by the voice calling out orders. He watches his friends scatter, reluctant to leave the three of them but needed in the battle.

“Anchors aweigh as soon as the ladders are up, boys!” Grantaire calls out. “And bring some of the extra sailcloth up from below, there’s a nasty rip in the fore topsail. And tell Gavroche to aim the chain shot at their rigging so they can’t follow, I’m sure we’ll already have enough of that going on.”

“Captain,” Enjolras says, drawing Grantaire’s attention.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes, and Enjolras feels Bossuet’s hands resting on his shoulders, as if ascertaining whether or not he’s real. “You’re all right.” His eyes run over Enjolras’ form, looking confused. “Where’s your coat?”

“Gone, I’m afraid.”

Before Enjolras quite knows what’s happening he sees Grantaire step toward him, arms pulling him into an embrace that lasts only a few seconds before he pulls back, but there’s nothing less than sincerity in his green eyes.

“We’ll get you a new one,” Grantaire says, firm. “You look practically naked without it.”

Enjolras smiles, the serious moment turning at least in part, to a joke.

“Thank you, Grantaire,” he says. “For protecting the ship. You’re a natural.”

“Very temporarily,” Grantaire says, serious again. “She’s waiting for you, when you’re ready.”

Enjolras nods, grasping Grantaire’s arm briefly before he hears another familiar voice behind him.

“Enjolras!” Joly exclaims. “Oh my goodness, oh, I was worried. Valjean has asked that you, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac come below with us and as soon as we’re clear the others will follow.”

Enjolras feels wrong stepping away from the active battle, but does as Joly asks. He follows Joly down, stepping into the quarters he, Bossuet, and Grantaire share, seeing Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Valjean already there. As soon as the manacles are removed he’s immediately pulled into an embrace by Courfeyrac, who hugs both he and Combeferre close. Enjolras feels the stress of the past few days pour into his blood, his whole form trembling, and Courfeyrac holds him even closer.

“We’re out,” Combeferre says, voice muffled against Enjolras’ shoulder. “We’re out.”

They break apart, and Enjolras turns to Valjean as Joly inspects Combeferre and Courfeyrac for injuries, tutting at the small wounds on their wrists, worry in his eyes, but his hands steady as ever.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, putting out a hand, and Valjean takes it, holding tight. “I cannot…”

“We came as quickly as we could,” Valjean says. “We had to make some fast repairs and then the winds were not quite on our side at first. I hate to have left the three of you there so long.”

“You did everything in your power,” Enjolras assures him, “I can scarcely believe we’re out of there. I knew you’d come, I knew we could escape, but…

Valjean smiles at him, putting both hands on his shoulders, careful with his touch.

“I know how terrible it must have been for you to be there,” Valjean says. “For all three of you. But you did the right thing, Rene. It saved Prouvaire’s life, undoubtedly.”

Enjolras feels something settle in his chest at that, and Valjean studies his face further, worry in his eyes.

“Did they hurt you?”

“Not physically,” Enjolras says. “Not really. They attempted to bleed me, but weren’t successful.”

Whatever Valjean might have said next is interrupted by Joly, who spins Enjolras around.

“Don’t you think you’re escaping my inspection,” he says, a reprimand in his voice, but he puts a gentle hand on the back of Enjolras’ neck, affection in his eyes. “I’ve been worried sick for near on eight or nine days and I…” he breaks off, dabbing cream on Enjolras’ wrists and looking away, focusing on his work.

“I’m all right, Joly,” Enjolras says, soft with his words. “All three of us are. Thanks to all of you.”

“They took your coat, too,” Joly mutters in response. “Valjean told me how they cut it up. How dare they.”

At this Enjolras hears the anchor come up, the stray sounds of cannon and gun fire blasting off. Mere seconds later the door comes bursting open, and Bahorel, Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Grantaire, and Gavroche come piling in, the small quarters decidedly overfull.

“Fantine sent a runner over just before we set off,” Bahorel tells them. “To tell us to stop as soon as we’re far enough and able, so that Chantal might see Frantz, and because Cosette says, and I quote, she requires to inspect Rene, Frantz, and Auden herself before embracing them into eternity. I doubt anyone should argue with this statement.”

“Most heartily agreed,” Valjean says. “I’m certain Commodore Enjolras and Javert will chase us, but they may be a few hours behind, they’ll need time to prepare.”

There’s a space of quiet, a bittersweet joy building in the pit of Enjolras’ stomach at the sight of them all, his present smashing into his past and rescuing him from its clutches, leading out into the unknown future.

“Oh I cannot stand it!” Prouvaire exclaims, sudden, before somehow wrapping his arms around Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac all at once, and after a few seconds all the others join him, creating an odd tangle of bodies, all covered in sweat from the heat but none of them caring.

There’s a battle ahead, a battle where his father and Javert stand on the other side, and he’d be lying to himself if he said that wasn’t painful, that everything he leaves behind him isn’t painful, but for now, he takes strength from the friends very literally around him.

This, Enjolras thinks, is what home feels like.

* * *

When the smoke clears, Javert hears Admiral Adams’ and Baron Travers’ voices, but they sound faraway and jumbled up. Javert’s head aches, thoughts running through his mind at lightning speed, tangling themselves into knots he cannot undo.

“Javert did you hear me?” Admiral Adams says, still coughing, furious. “You and Commodore Enjolras are to go after those ships immediately. It will take at least an hour or two to prepare properly, so I need you at the _Chase_ now, I’ll send someone to alert the men, Baron Travers will send a runner for East India.”

“How far should we pursue them sir?” Javert asks, knocking the weariness out of his voice.

 “I don’t care if you have to pursue them all the way to the coast of New Providence Island,” Admiral Adams says. “This cannot stand. If you cannot reach them until then and other pirates come to assist then retreat for the sake of saving your men’s lives, but otherwise pursue, even if the cost is high. The cost of letting them go free is higher.” Admiral Adams swings around, and it’s the first time Javert’s seen his commanding officer truly lose his composure. “And Michel, you had best bring Valjean and Fantine here if they are not killed in the process, along with every last officer on both of those damned pirate ships, or there’s a good chance the deal we’ve struck is off. Your son is dangerous, and now’s he’s escaped into the hands of his fellows, who will only encourage it.”

“Admiral,” Baron Travers argues. “The governor…”

“Pardon my rudeness Baron, but I’m certain the governor will not want these two notorious pirates ships roaming near his island or any other British colony,” Admiral Adams says, swiping his hand through the air. “We do not have time to argue the finer points of the matter, just bring them to me and then we will have a discussion. If this fails, I imagine the discussion will be very different.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says.

Michel doesn’t even answer Admiral Adams, nor does he spare his father in a law a glance as he starts off at a run, Javert following close behind. There’s a familiar determination in his eyes, but it’s edged with a kind of recklessness Javert’s never seen before, Admiral Adams’ threat haunting his every step.

“We’ll leave my consort ship behind,” Michel says. “There’s not time to prepare three ships if we’re to catch them before they make landfall, the _Navigator_ and the _Chase_ should be enough to keep up with them. If they dock before we can come up on them, then there’s no use at all.”

“I agree,” Javert says. “Michel, about what Admiral Adam’s mentioned just now…”

“We’ll see if he dares make good on that,” Michel says, not meeting Javert’s eyes, the recklessness pushing outward into his expression, words tinged with defiance. “We’ll see.” His voice grows into a whisper, and Javert doesn’t have the time to consider his meaning, and finds it terrifies him to do so.

A few of the men are already on deck when he arrives at the _Chase_ , and he sets them to work. Normally he takes part himself but for just a few minutes he heads toward his cabin, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning on his desk for support, fearing his feet might give out from under him.

He must face facts.

Rene might die. Rene might be executed, in fact.

He might be killed for being a pirate instead of chasing pirates himself as he’d pretended so often as a child.

His punishment is just, Javert reminds himself. Rene and Frantz both threw away their chance at grace, grace only offered to them because of their connections. The law dictated they would die, because the contract was now broken. And Javert was a servant of the law.

 He couldn't do anything.

...could he?

 _But what?_ Another voice inside his head echoes. _You heard the Admiral as clear as day. You heard him say that the deal is likely void unless this goes extremely well, even with his connections. You cannot save him and maintain your own code, let alone your duty and your job. No, the chances of the deal remaining are too slim._

But Michel, Javert thinks. Michel. Michel wasn’t himself. Michel was acting strange, defiant, rebellious. Desperate.

Would Michel break the law to save his son?

No, Javert thinks at first.

 _Yes,_ the voice answers back. _And it will ruin his life if he does. You could save him from that._

How? he asks aloud to the empty cabin.

_You could kill Rene yourself._

The idea sits sick and hot and heavy in his stomach. He’s killed pirates before, he tells himself, and this…this…

 _You'd be showing his father mercy_ , he hears. _Michel wouldn’t have to watch his son’s execution, which seems more likely by the minute. And you could save him from doing something rash, from ruining his life. His career .You’d even be showing Rene mercy. If you’re honest with yourself, you didn't want him to die because of your own residual affection. But now there's no other option, if you're to obey the law._

He can't kill him. Surely, there has to be another way.  It was one thing to watch the law do its work, but to take the boy's life himself....

_You know there isn't another way. All that awaits that boy now is the noose, and you know it. Every plague has its casualties. This is no different._

This is no different.

Can he put his hands to the boy?

_You must. You're going after the ship now. Your swords will inevitably cross. It's simple, really. Pirates die in fights with the navy all the time._

He’d played with him, he’d helped raise him. He’d taught him how to swing a sword.

_You can save Michel some of his heartache and still do your duty. You can save Michel from himself, from jail and from arrest if he breaks the law to save his son. You can save Rene the pain of the noose. You know how to manage a quick death by a sword. And if it fails, a pistol. The noose will not be as kind as your own hand._

Yes, he decides. It’s what’s best. For Michel. For Rene, really. The boy had grown rotten to the core.

But would Michel forgive him?

Maybe not. Maybe so. But it would protect him.

An image of Rene coming up to him on the deck of the _Navigator_ jumps into Javert’s memory. He remembers the shy smile, the way he’d shuffled his foot back and forth across the deck.

He tries to tell himself he doesn’t care but oh _god_ he _does_ care, and it _hurts_ , sending an ache cascading through his body. He stands there for a moment, closing his eyes and forcing the feeling down until he’s stone.

Duty and mercy. Mercy and duty. There could be both. There could.

Valjean didn’t think him capable of mercy. He wouldn't shun the law for it. He couldn't. He would operate with the bounds, and it would work.

He takes a deep breath, steadying his hands and stepping back out on deck, throwing himself into helping the boatswain and the deck crew with the rigging, and pushing all thought out of his mind entirely until they’re ready to set sail. He’s so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t see a familiar figure lost in the busy crowd of sailors, her long blonde hair tucked beneath an old tri-corn, wearing a pair of too-large breeches and a jacket stolen from her husband’s closet, sneak aboard the _Navigator_ just before it departs in tandem with the _Chase_ , sailing onward into the ever darkening night.

 


	24. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm, and then, the storm itself. Emotions run high and questionings of the soul abound as opposing forces clash. The swords of two very different Absolutes cross in a battle of Love vs. Fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! A couple of notes on sailing an sword-fighting terms here:
> 
> I reference giving no quarter vs. giving quarter, the first of which means granting no mercy, even if the enemy surrenders, whereas the second means lives are spared, etc. 
> 
> I spent a lot of time trying to make sense of how ships arranged themselves during battle, so hopefully it makes sense here. Sailing upwind usually meant you were trying to sail away from a fight, which I mention here. 
> 
> I make a few references to sword-fighting terms which I think are explained in the text but I'll list them here in case you're curious:
> 
> Empty Fade - Leaping backwards as if to fade but immediately leaping forwards again.
> 
> Pass Back - Taking a step backwards by moving your front foot into the rear position.
> 
> Advance - a short forward movement.
> 
> Step Across - Rotating 180 degrees by crossing the front foot across the back foot and then turning in place
> 
> It's in the tags, but just a general warning for violence in this bit. Nothing graphic or anything, but there's swords and mentions of blood and the like.

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 8**

**Aboard the Liberte. A few hours after the escape from Kingston.**

It’s only been a little over a week since Enjolras saw his captain’s cabin, yet as he steps inside, time feels frozen. He runs his finger across the edge of the desk; everything upon it is much the same, but he smiles at some of Feuilly’s papers sitting next to his open sea log, his neat, boxy print familiar, different from Enjolras’ own slanted, sometimes cramped cursive. Courfeyrac’s covers are still rumpled, an assortment of knives and a book resting near the pillow. Charts sit atop Combeferre’s hastily made bed, a journal laying open beside them.

Just outside the cracked door he hears Chantal’s happy, relieved murmurs to Combeferre; they’d anchored a few hours after escaping the Kingston harbor, and Chantal practically leaped over from the _Misericorde_ , pulling first Combeferre, then himself and Courfeyrac into a desperate embrace. He also hears Marius’ nervous words and Courfeyrac’s easy but tired laughter, pictures Courfeyrac laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. There’s a knock on the door, but before he can answer it flies open, revealing Cosette. She runs up toward him and then stops short just inches away, searching his face for permission. He smiles softly at her, putting his arms out in answer. She continues forward, but she’s gentler than Enjolras expects from her earlier enthusiasm, slipping her arms around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder. As soon as he returns the gesture she pulls him in tighter, small but fierce.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “When Jahni and the others arrived and we heard what happened…”

“I’m all right,” Enjolras answers, pulling back.

Cosette considers him, tilting her head. “It would be all right if you weren’t, you know.”

“I’m mostly all right,” Enjolras amends. “Thanks to all of you. Thank you for coming for us.”

“Of course,” Cosette says. “We couldn’t do anything else.”

“I saw a bit of your command on the _Misericorde_ as we rowed up in the longboats,” Enjolras says. “I think you have the natural talent to make an excellent captain, if I may so.”

“You may,” Cosette says, folding her hands behind her back and grinning, pleased. “But you and I had the best teachers anyone could ask for, didn’t we?”

“So we did,” Enjolras answers. “We couldn’t have asked for better.”

There’s another rap at the door, and Fantine and Valjean enter, a box in the latter’s hands.

“You got here first,” Fantine says, pressing her daughter’s hand. “How am I not surprised?”

“I’m quick on my feet,” Cosette say. “I going to go assist Jahni on deck, I’ll let the three of you talk.”

Cosette smiles at all of them once more, her fingertips grazing across Valjean’s shoulder before she goes, shutting the door behind her.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, until Enjolras speaks first.

“How long are we to stay anchored?” he asks. “Surely they’ll reach us if we stay too long.”

“With the current winds I’m afraid they’ll reach us before we make it to Nassau in any case,” Valjean says. “I believe the battle in front of us is inevitable, and we best prepare for it.” Enjolras watches Fantine smile just a tad at Valjean’s words, and he hears a stronger confidence in his mentor’s words. “We’ll set sail again in about a half hour after we convene and make some preparations for the battle, get as close to Nassau as we can so that we can escape if need be, or hopefully only have a short sail if we sustain a great deal of damage. I believe they’ll catch us in a day or two.”

“You don’t seek to avoid?” Enjolras asks.

“I think that would be foolish, at this point,” Valjean says. “One, because I think this is inevitable, as you all have pointed out. And two, well. I’d rather prepare for a battle, given the high chance of them catching us, instead of wasting our time looking for a route to try and escape and face them unprepared.”

Enjolras nods. “Smart strategy.” His eyes rove over the box. “What’s this?” he asks, gesturing toward it, and Valjean sets it down on Enjolras’ bed.

“Open it,” Fantine says, a husky quality to her voice.

Enjolras looks at them curiously for a moment, then goes over to his bed, lifting the top of the box, a gasp escaping him when he sees the contents. A new cutlass in a simple leather sheath lie within, some gold laid into the handle and matching the small buttons on the red coat lying beneath, bright as his old one was faded.

“We were saving those for your birthday in a few weeks,” Fantine explains, and in his periphery he sees her wiping her eyes. “But it was Valjean’s idea to bring them with us when we came to retrieve you. Bossuet’s been working on the sword for a while, and Chantal and Tiena made the coat.” She pauses as he runs his finger over the handle of the sword, hand hovering over the coat but not quite touching the fabric. “I’m so sorry they took your old ones from you, Rene. It was cruel.”

Enjolras picks up the cutlass, unable to look at Fantine and Valjean just yet. He pulls the blade from the sheath, the sunlight coming in through the window and gleaming off the metal.

“Perfect blade,” he says in a whisper, lifting his eyes and meeting theirs. “Thank you. Both of you. For this. For…”

“You’re welcome Rene,” Valjean says, finishing for him.

“I know what an immense risk it was,” Enjolras insists. “I know what risk lies before us.”

“And every bit worth it,” Valjean answers. “We stick together.”

“Absolutely,” Fantine says, noticing how Enjolras avoids the coat. She walks over, putting a light kiss on his cheek. “I’m going to go up on deck,” she continues, meeting his eyes again. “But try on the coat. I think you’ll find it’s a perfect fit.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says again, giving her a smile. “Truly.”

She puts a careful hand on his face, studying him, and he realizes again, just how resilient she is. How sturdy and determined she is to never let her demons destroy her. Even if darkness sits around the edges sometimes, light prevails. His smile widens, and something lifts in his chest. With that she’s gone, leaving him alone with Valjean.

“Rene,” Valjean begins. “I just want to remind you that all the things your father and Javert, and in particular your grandfather put you through, you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, hearing the splinter in his own voice.

“I’m sure you do,” Valjean amends. “But sometimes those voices in the back of our minds have a way of getting to us. And your grandfather especially knows just where to strike. But this is your home. We…” Valjean swallows, blinking. “ _We_ are your home. Don’t let them make you forget it.”

“I couldn’t,” Enjolras says, his throat closing up.

He looks down, and after a pause he feels a pair of strong but awkward, hesitant arms wrap around him. He’s surprised for a moment, then returns the gesture, face resting against Valjean’s shoulder, one of the few people taller than himself.

“You’ll be all right my boy,” Valjean says, and Enjolras finds he hears Feuilly in the cadence of his voice. “Do not feel any shame, do you hear me?”

Enjolras nods, pulling back, hands lingering on Valjean’s arms for a moment before letting go.

“Soon it will be time for us to make our stand,” Valjean says, an inevitable apprehension running through his voice. “But I believe we are prepared.”

He walks over to the box, picking the coat up and examining it before handing it over to Enjolras, who takes it, hands grasping the collar.

“I think it will look excellent on you,” Valjean says, a fond twinkle in his eyes.

“It might make me look like a target,” Enjolras teases.

“Perhaps,” Valjean says, a smirk flickering on his lips. “When Auden returns make sure to tell him we’ll get him a new engraved dirk. Not so easy to replace as Frantz’s preferred pistol, but we’ll see it done.”

He taps the collar of the coat before heading toward the door, turning one last time, hand on the knob.

“I’ll see you on deck,” he says. “Captain.”

The word strikes Enjolras as Valjean leaves, remembering the way which Javert and his grandfather both spoke it, disdain on their lips.

_Let’s show him how worthless his captaincy is. Divest him of his…regalia._

He sits down in the chair behind his desk, the coat spread out across the wood, his hands clutching the sleeves, thumb running over the tiny embroidery bearing his name in black stitching.

_Captain R. Enjolras._

He’s only alone for a moment, and then the door opens, revealing Courfeyrac, the trail of Marius’ laughter following him inside.

“All right if I come in?” he asks.

“Certainly,” Enjolras says. “It’s your cabin as well as mine.”

“So it is,” Courfeyrac says. “But I did just see Valjean leave.” His eyes run over the new cutlass still resting on Enjolras’ bed. “A new cutlass, brilliant! Worthy of its new owner, if Bossuet made it.”

“He did,” Enjolras answers. “Which you knew, given this was supposed to be a birthday present, I’m told?”

“Caught me, my good man,” Courfeyrac says, grinning and raising his hands in defeat. “And a new coat,” he continues, a bit more reserved now, the same memory from a few hours ago playing in his eyes, thumb running over the cuff of his own navy blue coat. “But you haven’t put it on, I see?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, hands still grasping the coat, the memory of the old one laying in pieces burning across his heart. His grandfather wanted to take everything from him, and he’d made Javert his soldier in the process, no matter his father’s protests. Courfeyrac reaches across, taking both of Enjolras’ hands and holding them securely in his own. Courfeyrac’s hands are warm as usual, and when Enjolras looks up, he sees an all-encompassing understanding in his friend’s eyes.

“Ever since I first saw you at that party when we were twelve-years-old…” Courfeyrac begins.

“Making a romantic interlude are we?” Enjolras interrupts.

Courfeyrac raises his eyebrows, impressed at the joke. “You would be so lucky,” he answers. “But be quiet a moment, I’m being serious.”

Enjolras falls silent, and Courfeyrac grasps his hands a little tighter.

“Ever since I saw you that day,” Courfeyrac repeats. “I felt I knew something about you just from that burn in your eyes. I knew that no matter what you’d been through, that you’d always make the right choice, that you would find a way to alter the world we live in, and you’d go down trying. And no matter what happened in Kingston, that’s still true.”

“I don’t want my emotions to compromise my decisions,” Enjolras admits. “I’m afraid they will. I don’t _like_ being afraid.”

“It’s like what I’ve heard you say before,” Courfeyrac says. “It’s not courage if you aren’t afraid, is it? But don’t be afraid of your own emotions, my friend, for I feel they have always been your power. Logic you may be, but you are also love.”

Enjolras squeezes Courfeyrac’s hand, listening.

“We have all three of us been through something together the past few days,” Courfeyrac continues. “They wanted us to believe we were mad. They wanted us to believe our friends wouldn’t come for us. They wanted to us to believe perhaps the three of us would be separated forever. But they were wrong. And no matter what’s coming for us now, I believe we will stand up to it. That _you_ will stand up to it. Perhaps we will go down fighting back. Perhaps we’ll survive. But whichever of those outcomes is true, we’ll do it together. And you’ll be our captain. Put on the coat, Rene. It’s waiting for you.”

Something light fills Enjolras’ chest, and he presses Courfeyrac’s hands once more before standing up and lifting the coat off the desk, considering it and the gold buttons he’s certain Bahorel chose before sliding it on.

A perfect fit.

“Let me see,” Courfeyrac says, beckoning him to the other side of the desk. “Ah yes, quite intimidating if I do say so myself. Welcome back to the Avenging Angel!”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, swatting at Courfeyrac’s arm and earning a surprised whoop of laughter.

“And you may borrow one of my hats since your was lost in the process,” Courfeyrac says, pointing at his sea chest. “There’s at least two more in there.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, looking down once more at the name stitched into the sleeve. He remembers a similar thing on one of his father’s coats, and he cannot help but recall the desperation in his father’s face over the past few days, the way he’d pulled back from his touch when Enjolras reached out, terrified and breaking in front of him. If he’s honest with himself he _misses_ his father. Misses the man he saw a glimpse of as a child, misses the man he knows his father could be but never quite was.

“Do you think my father will turn?” Enjolras asks, looking back up at Courfeyrac. “I sensed something in him. A desire for it. But I am not certain.”

“I am not sure, Rene,” Courfeyrac says, a strain of sadness running through his smile. “I sensed the same thing. Even if I wasn’t there for most of your fondest memories of him, I always felt he was a man who wanted to do right but could never figure out how. Because he was taking his orders from the wrong people instead of listening to his son. To his wife. To Combeferre’s father. But I hope so. I do.”

Enjolras nods. “I don’t… I’m not sure what to make of Javert,” Enjolras continues, hearing the sound of the knife slicing up the back of his coat, sharp in his ears, remembers the potential apology on Javert’s lips, cut off by his grandfather, remembers the rage in his eyes as their swords slammed together in the doorway, remembers the quiet night and the jail cell, a flash of their old bond visible under the starlight before the sunrise vanquished it. “But I do know crossing swords with him will be inevitable.”

“I think part of him holds onto the days when you were close,” Courfeyrac says. “I met you when things were starting to fray, so it’s difficult for me to know him as a gentler man, even if I know the truth of it. But honestly, Rene, part of me fears that will make him even more dangerous. Because he resents that he is not able to rid himself of that affection, despite the fact that you are everything he claims he despises.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, remembering the feel of Javert’s sword against his neck below the deck of the _Liberte_. “I think you’re right about that.”

He senses something off in Courfeyrac’s expression as his friend looks out the window. He wraps a hand around Courfeyrac’s elbow, drawing his attention.

“You know we wouldn’t be where we are without you,” Enjolras says. “The three of us.”

“Rene,” Courfeyrac tries.

“No,” Enjolras says, holding up a hand. “It’s true.” He softens, turning Courfeyrac toward him. “You are irreplaceable. Don’t you dare forget that.”

“Are those captain’s orders?” Courfeyrac asks, but Enjolras hears the emotion well in his voice.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers. “I do suppose they are.” He pauses again, searching Courfeyrac’s face. “I know Frantz and I have known each other longer, that some things happened early on you were not present for. But you mean as much to us as we do to one another. I just wanted you to know that.”

At this Courfeyrac puts his arms around Enjolras, pulling him in tight.

“Hugs all around today, then,” Enjolras whispers, reaching behind and tousling Courfeyrac’s curls.

The door opens again behind them, Combeferre’s voice floating into their ears.

“Having all the hugs without me, are you?” he asks, wry, but Enjolras sees the boundless affection resting in his eyes behind the spectacles. “They gave you the coat early, I see. Good.”

Enjolras holds out a hand to him and Combeferre takes it, pressing tight.

“Well come here then,” Courfeyrac says, tugging on Combeferre’s arm and pulling him into a three-way embrace. Enjolras feels Combeferre’s hand running gently up and down his back, looking up and seeing him do the same to Courfeyrac. Enjolras soaks in the moment, closing his eyes and opening them again, a surge of new confidence flooding through him. When they break apart, they all share a variation of the same smile.

“Are we ready?” Combeferre asks. “Mr. quartermaster?”

“Indeed, my good sailing master,” Courfeyrac says, grinning and putting a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder.

“And you, captain?” Combeferre asks.

 _You’ll be the captain and I’ll be the navigator_ , he hears Combeferre’s childish voice say, heartily enthused.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, taking both of their hands. “I’m ready. Auden, if I could have that extra hat you mentioned?”

“Absolutely,” Courfeyrac says, rifling through his chest as Enjolras and Combeferre go through theirs, pulling out their spare shoulder belts and pistols, and Courfeyrac his extra dirk.

They assemble their weaponry, and Enjolras straightens his new coat, feeling at home in it as Courfeyrac hands him the black tricorn. He puts it on his head, tightening the cloth holding his hair back.

“On deck then?” Enjolras asks.

“On deck,” Combeferre echoes.

They press each other’s hands once more before walking above, greeted by a throng of their friends, all grinning and ready for the inevitable battle to come.

“Let’s give a most hearty welcome back to our sailing master, our quartermaster, and most certainly our captain,” Bahorel says, ushering them all into the middle of the circle. “Three cheers, crew!”

A chorus of excited shouts and applause resounds around them, and Enjolras feels several claps on the back, a bubble of happiness growing in the pit of his stomach and chasing away some of the ache of the past week.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Enjolras says, loving the sound of his new cutlass as he draws it out of his sheath and points it toward the sky. “Anchors aweigh.”

* * *

**Aboard the _HMS Chase_.  Two days later.**

Javert sees sails on the horizon through the spy-glass. Two sets, and though no flags are waving yet, they aren’t trying to run.

They’re looking for the fight.

“The wind is on our side sir!” Andrews calls out. “But they aren’t trying to sail upwind to escape. I think they’re waiting for us.”

“How long until we’re on them?” Javert asks.

“An hour, the sailing master says. Should I prepare the men to give no quarter?”

“Give quarter,” another voice says, and Michel walks up beside Javert, looking haggard. He’d left the _Navigator_ in the hands of his first mate and boarded the _Chase_ just before they set sail, wishing to discuss strategy with Javert.

 “Follow Commodore Enjolras’ orders,” Javert says, nodding at Andrews, who goes toward the quarterdeck to inform the officers. “We are of the same mind here.”

The lie tastes bitter on his tongue.

If it were up to him, this would be a rare instance where they gave no quarter, but this is difficult enough, and the softer parts inside him cannot make it more so. Michel leans on the rail beside him, the sleeves of their coats touching; Michel’s shed his lighter red uniform jacket for his longer navy blue coat, gold braided across the chest, the East India flag embroidered onto the right sleeve, and _Commodore M. Enjolras_ onto the left.

“All right?” Michel asks.

 _I’m going to kill your son to save you from yourself_ , Javert says silently to himself. _To save him from the only fate that awaits him. The fate you won’t accept. The noose._

“As well as can be expected, I imagine,” Javert says, a bit gruff, but Michel doesn’t notice, caught up as he is at staring at the ships off in the distance.

Javert feels for the small leather bracelet in his pocket, the sensation odd and familiar all at once.

“I’m afraid my mother may be on one of those ships,” Javert says, pulling it out. “Valjean tossed this at me before they escaped.”

“The bracelet,” Michel says. “But that went missing when…”

“Rene and Frantz ran away, yes,” Javert finishes for him. “But I suspect somehow he returned it to my mother, and now that I look back, I suspect meeting Rene is how she found me those several years ago. And I think she gave it to Valjean to let me know she’s aboard. But I promise I will not allow it to distract me.”

“It would be understandable if it did,” Michel says, and Javert looks at him, surprised. He’s not certain he’s ever heard Michel place emotion so directly over duty before, and it only cements his decision about what he has to do. “What will you do?”

 _You must break him to save him_ , the voice from earlier says. _To save you. To save everyone._

Everyone but Rene.

_Rene threw away his chance. Spat on it._

What if Michel never forgives him? Never speaks to him?

_It doesn’t matter. If he has less to fight for, it will save him. From jail. Possibly from death himself. You know what the sentence is for so directly aiding and abetting a pirate. And that’s the road he’s on. And even if he’s not, he won’t survive watching his son walk to the gallows._

“She is a pirate,” Javert says. “Or as good as, if she’s been living on Nassau. That makes her no different from anyone else on that ship and if it comes to it, she will suffer the consequences of her choices.”

“Nicholas,” Michel says, and the very slight disappointment in his tone stings Javert. “She is your mother.”

A rare flash of anger at Michel burns in his chest, his hands clenching the rail.

“All these years you have taught me that duty matters above all,” Javert says, turning to look at him now. “That we must stay on the side of justice. Of the law. That we were right. _That_ is what I am trying to accomplish.”

Michel sighs, eyes stuck on Javert’s face before they dart out to the pirate ships off in the distance and then back again.

“I am not…” he tries. “I am not certain things are as simple as I wished they were. The authorities we serve are not infallible.”

“Yet you are here,” Javert says, hating the desperation in his voice, hating the feeling of the foundation of his life cracking beneath him.

“It is what I know,” Michel says. “This job, these ships, this life. They are the only things that have remained steady throughout the years. That, and my friendship with you.” He pauses, and Javert squashes the storm of messy emotion he feels building within him. “I must save them, Nicholas. Rene and Frantz. I must get them back from these pirates. I will do whatever it takes.”

_Whatever it takes._

“I thought…all these years I thought us the heroes, imagined myself the man who saw justice done,” Michel continues. “And now I am not certain.”

“You are that man,” Javert insists. “Do not let them…” he trails off, realizing he has likely stepped too far, but when he looks up, he sees no anger in Michel’s eyes, only that deep, unending grief he’s become familiar with, mixed with a guilt that darkens his eyes.

“Do not let Rene convince me otherwise?” Michel asks, a sad smile on his face now.

The words hang in the air, and neither answers the question.

“I need to go speak with my officers,” Javert says, words half a grumble. “But we are at your command, of course.”

Javert turns to go but before he can leave there’s a hand grasping his sleeve, and he spins back around, a question on his lips.

“I am not sure what will happen today,” Michel says. “But I need you to know, now, that you mean a great deal to me, Nicholas. I am not always talented at saying so. I have always been the younger brother in my family, but knowing you has given me a sense of what it might be like to have one instead.”

“Thank you, Michel,” Javert says, not quite trusting his voice. “For everything.”

With that Michel nods, walking away toward Javert’s master gunner, an order on his lips that Javert doesn’t hear. Javert waits a moment, and instead of going toward his officers gathered on the quarterdeck, he darts in his cabin, shutting and locking the door behind him. His eyes feel damp and he slams his hand down on the desk, the sound echoing throughout the small room. A marked fear prickles at his skin and he despises it; all he can see in his mind’s eye is the small blond boy with the wooden toy sword in his hand, his father lifting him up on his shoulders, warm, genuine laughter escaping him as the child giggled, the stars twinkling above them, friendly.

He sees Arthur sitting on the deck with Frantz, teaching him how to sail by the stars.

Why had he _ever_ allowed himself to care about them?

He sees his mother standing in his office, feels her hand on his face, sees himself draw back, a hiss of disgust on his lips even as the faint echoes of the child he’d been protested.

He sees Valjean from a just a few hours ago, tossing him the bracelet, that wretched understanding in his eyes.

He sees Enjolras again, older now, his sword draw still uncannily fast despite his manacled hands, a melancholy fire in his eyes, an unspoken challenge resting between them.

He sees Admiral Adams and his expectant, almost proud expression, hears the threat in Baron Traver’s threat that might undo it all.

He sees Michel grasping his sleeve, his solid, stoic, hero crumbling before him.

As a child, he’d never believed in heroes, and he never should have started.

He sniffs, standing up straight again and shaking his head. He pulls his second pistol from his desk, arranging it on his shoulder belt and running his thumb over the handle of his cutlass, repeating one word over and over again to himself.

 _Duty_.

* * *

**Aboard the _Liberte_. An hour later.**

“Ships approaching!” Enjolras calls out from his place at the wheel with Combeferre, the latter’s energy focused exclusively on turning the ship so they’re sitting abreast of the _Misericorde_ rather than behind it, so that each of them might concentrate on boarding one of the approaching ships. “Gather the grappling hooks and the gangplanks and prepare to board.”

“I’m glad you and Fantine convinced Valjean into this new tactic,” Combeferre says, gritting his teeth slightly as the Liberte swings around slowly, but Enjolras cannot help but smile at Combeferre’s near flawless execution of the turn; he’s his father’s son, and as the ship glides into place, Enjolras silently thinks, once again, that he’s a genius.

“We’ll be sitting too tightly together for them to come between us,” Enjolras says. “There are risks from them coming in on either side, but at least this way…”

“Neither of our ships is taking fire from two of theirs,” Combeferre finishes, grinning and releasing a breath and the ship gives a last creak before settling. “Right. There’s a risk anyway you go, but I think we’ve set up the best we can. Smart thinking, my friend.”

“Fancy meeting you here!” Cosette exclaims as they come up beside the _Misericorde_. “Excellent maneuvering, Frantz.”

“Thank you, Cosette,” Combeferre says. “All ready here?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be, I expect,” Cosette says, eyeing the ships coming toward them. “Won’t be long now.”

“No it won’t,” Enjolras says, the breeze kicking up and blowing some loose tendrils of his hair into his face, playful.

“Captain,” Bahorel says, walking up to them with Prouvaire and Gavroche in tow, a teasing grin on his face even now. “Guns crews are ready at your command.”

“Excellent,” Enjolras says, clasping Bahorel’s shoulder and spotting Feuilly, who runs up next.

“Furled some of the sails to prevent any unwanted movement,” Feuilly tells them, slightly breathless, but there’s a spark in his eyes. “But men are on notice to let them down at my order as soon as we need them.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, spotting Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Grantaire and Joly coming up next.

“The damage we took to the bow was repaired before we left Nassau to come retrieve you,” Bossuet says without preamble. “But I’ve made note of any weak spots in the wood beforehand, so we know where to watch as I…assume we’ll be taking on damage?”

“Inevitably,” Grantaire says, a marked seriousness in his tone as he gazes out at the ships, whose gun ports are opening as they sail closer.

“Made a space for a sick bay below,” Joly says. “And stocked up on extra supplies before we left Nassau. We’re as prepared as we can be.”

“We couldn’t ask for a better man for the job,” Enjolras says, feeling a not altogether unexpected emotion gathering in his chest, seeing Valjean, Fantine, Eponine, and Marius coming over to join them, Tiena behind them. Chantal appears beside Combeferre, having switched to the _Liberte_ when they anchored.

Joly grasps Enjolras’ hand in silent affection before Enjolras turns to Courfeyrac, who greets him with that familiar merriness bouncing around in his green eyes, which are also lit with a determined fire and a belief that does not shake.

“Crew is prepared to board,” Courfeyrac tells him. “I’ve stationed men with guns around the perimeter to try and cut down men if they try to board us, which I suspect they will.”

Enjolras nods again, silence settling in around the group of them even against the backdrop of noise. Chantal takes Combeferre’s hand in hers, and Tiena looks out, eyes searching the two approaching ships for her son. They’re to go into Enjolras’ cabin before the battle begins, but for now they all stand in this moment together, waiting. There’s not truly any signs of rain, but gray tinged clouds come in, partly blocking the sun.

“Ready?” Valjean asks, their two ships so close they’re only a few feet away from one another and perfectly within hearing.

“I believe so,” Enjolras says, looking over at him, an idea springing to mind when he looks around, seeing the apprehension on some of the sailor’s faces. “But I was wondering, might I….say a few words? To the crews?”

“Certainly, Rene,” Valjean says, intrigued. “Do go ahead.”

Gavroche helps Enjolras up onto the rail, standing by his knee in case he slips, and Enjolras takes a firm hold of the rigging. Men on both ships turn at seeing the commotion, and yet more when his voice pierces the air, carried like a hymn upon the wind.

“Those men on those ships out there," Enjolras begins, raising his voice so more men might hear. “They would have you feel that we have already lost because they believe the victory is inevitably theirs. But it's not true. Because no matter what happens here, today, it is people like us, people who have always existed and who will always continue to exist, that bend the arc of history toward progress. It doesn't happen on its own, mind you. It happens because the spirit of our cause, the heartbeat of our revolution threads itself through the generations, manifesting itself in different ways and in different people. Each picking up where the other left off as they run through time, a fire at their heels and a song in their hearts.” He looks out, seeing his father’s East India colors whipping in the wind next to the British flag on Javert’s beloved _Chase_.  “Some of us have parted ways with family. But no matter the pangs of that loss, we have found in each other a new one. Anger drives us, that is certain. But it is not some unchecked, barbarous rage. No. In my mind it is anger driven by something more powerful; love. And that is our future. Scenes like this," he says, gesturing between the approaching ships and theirs. "Will be less. No more of this fighting between those who should be brothers.”

As the _Chase_ and the _Navigator_ grow closer, he sees his father’s form near the rail, leaning forward and trying to make out his words, and rather than the normal noise of preparing for battle, a hush resounds through the air.

“No more father against son,” he continues, his voice falling into a near whisper, but somehow still, they hear him, as if the breeze carries his words away and toward the crew.  

His eyes land on Combeferre and Joly, and his heart feels full.

"Sometimes progress exists in the forward thinking of humanity. In science. In learning more than we knew before."

His gaze lands on Valjean and Fantine, and he feels himself choking up, clearing his throat before speaking again.

"Sometimes a revolution begins in the hands of men and women who break their own chains and then make a life of breaking the chains of others, one by one, wherever they can."

His eyes fall on his friends, on the whole crew, and he feels something in him burst with a bittersweet joy.

"That revolution is carried on by people who understand that we must challenge the way society does things. That we must say enough is _enough_. That it is about not just changing what we do, but how we think. And that is no small bravery. No matter if they remember our names, the people who come after us will remember the dawn we brought. They will remember us ripping holes in the darkness and letting the light shine through, that we risked our lives for it. It is my hope that we will live to see another day, to fight another hour, because every last one of you standing here matters to the world and its accomplishments. But if we lose our lives here today, what shall we die for? The freedom and redemption of the human race. And nothing less.”

He looks across at Valjean, who looks back, blinking tears from his eyes, a fierceness in his expression as he nods in agreement.

“Captain Valjean,” Enjolras says, feeling the moisture in his own eyes. “Shall we hoist the colors?”

Valjean gives Enjolras that reserved smile he knows so well before he tips his hat at him, calling out to the crew.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Valjean shouts. “Hoist the colors!”

“Hoist the colors!” more crew members shout, growing louder and louder as it passes from person to person until it’s one great chorus from them all, the black flags rising against the gray sky, the few strands of visible sunlight hitting the skull and crossbones dead center.

They wait, hands on their weapons, and Enjolras feels his heartbeat pounding in his ears, staring across first at the _Chase_ and then at the _Navigator_ , the ship he grew up on, the ship he learned to sail on, the ship where Arthur died, and the ship where they found slaves in the hold, and everything broke open.

Then, there’s a warning shot across each of their bows, the ships themselves giving first blood as wood spatters onto the decks.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Valjean and Enjolras’ voices ring out together.

_Fire all!_

* * *

Michel sees the _Liberte’s_ grappling hooks cut into the wood of the _Navigator_ , just before their own return the favor, and as he looks across where the _Chase_ has come abreast of the _Misericorde_ , he sees a similar scenario.

He opens his mouth to tell the men to deter boarders but it dies in his throat when he sees pirates emerge from the smoke of the cannon fire, running across the gangplanks, his own men engaging them as they attempt to cross over themselves, everything in front of him a sudden swarm of bodies and gunfire and the sound of the cannons.

 _Aim close to the water line!_ He knows he would shout in any other situation in an attempt to sink the ship of an enemy he knows will not surrender, but as he sees the ship before him, his _son’s_ ship, he cannot force the words out.

“Take down the men on the perimeter of the ship!” he shouts instead. “Aim at them so we can board more easily!”

“Yes captain!” a few of the men call back to him, spreading the word across the ship.

The gangplank nearest him hits the edge of the _Liberte_ , and he steps onto it, taking one last look at the men behind him; they’ve certainly seen battle countless times, fought pirates, seen their comrades fall, but even if it’s just begun, there’s something more intense about this battle,  ideals clashing all around them as much as cutlasses. Some of the men on his crew have sailed with him since Rene and Frantz were boys, and that fact sits thick in the air. He feels someone tapping him on the leg just before he strides over, seeing an opening.

“Good luck commodore,” the voice says, and Michel turns, seeing Prescott standing behind him, one of his oldest men. A kind man and a good shot, if not the most talented sailor, with him since Rene was a toddler. “Bring your boy home.”

“Thank you Prescott,” Michel says, clasping the other man’s hand briefly. “I will do my best.”

What if Rene _is_ home?

“The men are here for you sir,” Prescott says, ushering him forward. “Now go.”

Michel gives him a quick smile, feeling anything but sure as he walks across the gangplank, jumping down onto the deck of the _Liberte_ , a gun pointed at him immediately. He grabs it before the pirate can move, his elbow striking the man’s face, and he falls to the deck, releasing a cry of pain and dropping the gun, a spurt of blood coming out of his nose. Michel draws his sword as a precaution, eyes searching the deck desperately for Rene, but not seeing him anywhere. But when he turns toward the helm, he does see someone else at the wheel.

Frantz.

He breathes in, walking toward him and cutting a pirate down on his way, finding he cannot look to see if the wound was mortal or not because this is his _son’s_ crew, his _son’s_ friends.

 _It shouldn’t matter_ , he tells himself. _They are pirates. How many pirates have you brought in, hmm?_

But it _does_ matter.

Combeferre’s back is to him as he approaches, and Michel hears the sound of one of his pistols going off, the bullet striking one of Michel’s own men in the arm.

“You remind me of your father, standing at the wheel like that,” Michel says. “The accuracy of your shot, too.”

Combeferre turns at the sound of Michel's voice, and Michel’s struck once again at how similar his eyes are to Arthur's. The speed with which he pulls a second pistol off his belt reminds him of Arthur too, but even if he should expect it, the visual still punches him unpleasantly in the stomach.

“I just want to talk,” Michel tries.

"I have no reason to trust you, Commodore Enjolras,” Combeferre replies. “Or did I miss everything that happened in the past week? Did I miss the fact that there’s a full-fledged battle raging around us?”

“I tried to save your life," Michel says, but his argument sounds thin even to his own ears. "Yours and Rene's.”

"A deal with the devil that leaves all our friends to die? No, sir. That's not a reason for me to trust you."

"Your father wouldn't want this for you," Michel shoots back. "Not this life."

"You know I've considered that," Combeferre says, voice cold with anger. "And I think you're wrong. Of the two of us, I'm the one who is trying to do the things he wanted most. I helped find my mother.  You didn't. He wanted Rene and I safe and happy and loved. I can't say we're safe, but we are happy, and we are loved, and you certainly didn't participate in keeping us that way."

"Frantz, I’m _sorry_..."

"We're the ones fighting back against the slave trade," Combeferre says, speaking over him. "You are participating in upholding it. Rene was right all those years ago, when he said my father would be disappointed in you." He stops, expression softening a fraction and considering Michel for a moment, his voice quieter and less frigid. "But there's still time to change that. Your sorry isn’t enough. You need to do something.”

Michel only stares, words failing him.

Combeferre sighs, retaining his grip on the pistol.

"I love you, sir," Combeferre continues. "Like my father before me. But my path lies with Rene's, and I will share his fate, and he mine. And that fate isn't being locked inside your house as if we are misbehaving children. It is here, aboard this ship, with this crew, fighting our damnedest to make progress happen.”

“I could get us out of here,” Michel says, voice shaking. “You and me and Rene and Astra. Away from my father in law. We could go to Paris. To London. You could study there, take part in the longitude experiments that might change the world of sailing as we know it.”

“They won’t let me,” Combeferre says. “I’m the illegitimate son of a black Haitian woman and the dead East India officer who dared defy society and acknowledge both me and his love for her. And no matter how much you try and soften that, it’s the truth. We need a different world, sir. And no matter how many books you buy me, no matter how intelligent I am, no matter how much money you throw at them, they won’t let me in until things change. And even on the rare chance they did let me, it would be because of you. Never because of me. And I won’t stand for that when it means even if they opened the door to me at your behest, they would never open it to anyone else who looked like me.”

Michel reaches out, trying to grasp Combeferre’s shoulder despite the gun so close, stopping at the sound of another familiar voice.

“Don’t touch him, Commodore Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, and Michel turns, seeing Courfeyrac un-sheath his dirk. “Back up.”

“Auden,” Michel says. “I do not want to fight you.”

“Look around you!” Courfeyrac shouts, and though it’s rare, Michel thinks that Auden’s anger rivals Rene’s in intensity. “Look at what is happening! If you didn’t want to fight, then you shouldn’t have chased us. You don’t get to back away now.”

“I was doing my…”

“Job?” Courfeyrac asks, stepping closer, and Michel puts his sword out in a defensive stance, though Courfeyrac doesn’t strike. “Was it your job to stand by while your father in law made your son kneel down at his feet and had your protégé rip his coat? Was if your job to let the same man bruise him up and strike him down? Was it your job to keep Frantz from the dinner table and dictate where he did and didn’t belong because of his skin color? Was it your job to avert your eyes when you saw slaves covered in disease and transport them anyway while you promised to take care of a boy who looked just like them? _Was it_ , commodore?”

Angry tears spill down Courfeyrac’s cheeks now, but when he opens his mouth to speak again, Michel cuts him off.

“Enough!” Michel shouts, shutting his eyes for a moment, a strange, high-pitched sound reverberating in his head, memories tangling together and toppling each other over a blur of confusing color. “Just…”

“Auden,” another voice says, deeper and older. “Let me, son.”

Valjean.

Michel looks up, seeing Courfeyrac hesitate before stepping back toward Combeferre. Finally, Michel’s gaze lands on Valjean, this man he’s heard so much about but never saw until a few days ago, this man Javert chased for years, this man who became a mentor to his son, this man whose name was news again and again and again.

_Robin Hood and his men._

_Fauchelevent the benevolent._

He’d told Javert to let it go, he’d brushed off the threat, not realizing Valjean stood at the epicenter of everything.

Something snaps in Michel when he meets Valjean’s eyes, seeing not just the anger he expects, but empathy, and the sight of it overwhelms him. Michel’s vision narrows, only seeing the man in front of him, and nothing else.

Then, he swings his sword.

Valjean draws his out just in time, barely deflecting the blow.

“You took my _son_ from me,” Michel says, his words broken and splintered and ruined as the pieces of wood spilled across the deck from the cannon fire. “You took _Arthur’s_ son _.”_

“You can blame me if you wish, commodore,” Valjean says, calm even as their blades cross again. “But I fear that’s rather missing the crux of the problem.”

Michel wants to rush at him, wants to swing his sword without thought, wants to make Valjean _hurt_ the way he does, wants Valjean to feel that sharp, stabbing pain in his chest he’s felt every day in the twelve years since the boys ran away, but his good sense slips back into place; a master swordsman he may be, but Valjean is trained as well, and taller and broader than himself.

They cross again and again and again, and Michel realizes Valjean only parries, and never strikes.

He remembers Arthur’s words from their argument on the day the mast struck him.

Valjean _was a convict laborer Michel. Do you know how many poor are arrested and thrown in prison for stealing to survive? He set free a slave woman at risk to his own escape plans. I cannot help but admire that._

“I know from Javert’s reports that you’re a talented swordsman,” Michel says, stepping back and pulling his sword away with the familiar scrape of metal on metal. “Why won’t you strike? Do you think me unable to keep up?”

“Not hardly,” Valjean says, and Michel feels himself pulled toward this man even as he disdains him. “Your reputation precedes you, and I know you certainly had a hand in Rene’s own tutelage.”

“Then _why_?” Michel presses.

“Because I don’t think you’re in your right mind,” Valjean says, keeping his defensive stance, feet set a shoulder’s length apart and grounded onto the deck. “I saw you in that room. I saw what your father in law was trying to make you do, giving up your son to save Frantz’s life. I have a nephew who is like my son, commodore, and an adopted daughter, I can imagine the agony I’d feel if someone presented me with that choice. Are those really the sort of people you want to associate with? I see that look in your eyes, the same one I’ve seen in Javert’s for years as we’ve circled each other, that _question_ in the back of his mind, wondering if he was right. But he is not yet willing to give it credence. You are.”

 “You don’t know me,” Michel insists. “You don’t know a thing.”

“I know you love your son. That you love Frantz,” Valjean says, and Michel just stares at him, the words standing out against the clang and the crash and the bang of the battle raging around them, the moment intimate amongst the chaos. “And I also know that you are drowning in your own guilt, in your our own grief at the loss of your children but also at the pain you have caused countless others. You want to make it right, but you don’t know how.”

“You should despise me,” Michel says, hearing Javert’s sharpness in his tone, mixed with his own desperation.

Valjean starts, a memory playing out in his eyes as if someone’s spoken these words to him before.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Valjean says, gentle, soft, and everything Michel never expected from this pirate…this _man_ who’d bonded so strongly with his son. “Rene wouldn’t want me to hurt you.”

_Rene._

“Where is he?” Michel asks. “Where is Rene?”

“I don’t know,” Valjean says, gazing around at the battle around them the air growing thicker with smoke, locked in a dead heat.

There’s a sudden flash of movement, the sound of Combeferre shouting at someone urgently to take the wheel. Before Valjean or Michel can call after him he’s running across the deck of the _Liberte_ and onto the _Misericorde_ , and when Michel turns he sees exactly where he’s headed, eyes drawn toward the bright pop of red contrasting against deep navy blue.

Near the bow are two figures, their swords struck together, and then with a single movement Michel sees Javert fall to the deck, reaching for his sword as Enjolras kicks it from him, his own cutlass frozen above in mid-air.

In unison, Michel and Valjean start running.

* * *

Enjolras spots Javert sooner than he expects among the melee.

Javert stands near the bow of the _Misericorde_ , clearly intending to make his way toward the _Liberte_ but finding himself thwarted by Fantine, who points her dirk steadily at him, eyes narrowed. Enjolras watches Javert swing his cutlass at her, watches Fantine meet him blow for blow, darting around him and strategically avoiding the heaviest strikes, using her speed as an antidote to his physical power. Fantine doesn’t need his saving, but after a moment Javert meets his eyes, and Enjolras knows he was right; Javert was searching him out, and there’s no sense in avoiding the confrontation. He steps forward, feeling a friendly hand grasp the arm of his coat, turning and seeing Prouvaire’s face.

“You can do this, Enjolras,” Prouvaire says, his own cutlass already drawn and spattered with a few droplets of blood. “You can defeat him. I know it.” Prouvaire smiles with a mixture of melancholy, belief, and amusement. “Bahorel says he’s already cleared out a space in the brig for our friend the navy captain.”

“Of course,” Enjolras says, his own voice sounding hoarse, amusement tinged with what might have been tears, if there were time. “Thank you, Jehan.”

“And Enjolras?” Prouvaire asks, his hand sliding down from Enjolras’ coat into his hand, holding it tightly for a moment.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” Prouvaire says, eyes darting over to Javert. “I know you love him, even still.”

“So I do,” Enjolras says, squeezing Prouvaire’s hand. “I’ll see you on the other side, my friend.”

Prouvaire nods, letting go of his hand and tugging on one of the gold buttons on Enjolras’ coat.

“Bahorel picked those out, you know.”

Enjolras laughs, feeling a real smile edge onto his face. He’d been right about that.

Enjolras leaves Prouvaire, striding over to where Javert and Fantine battle each other, just in time to see Fantine surprise Javert by elbowing him in the nose, not breaking it but surely bruising it, blood leaking out.

“You wench,” Javert growls, making to retaliate when he lays eyes on Enjolras again, lowering his sword. “Fortunately for you the main event has arrived, I don’t have time to indulge you.”

“I wouldn’t call it indulging me,” Fantine snarks back. “Given you’re bleeding and I’m not.”

Javert steps forward as if intimidation, but Fantine steps calmly back, holding his gaze.

“Rene,” she says, turning toward him, already disbelieving her own words. “You don’t have to…”

“You know I do,” Enjolras says. “It’s all right.”

“I’ll stay close where I’m able,” Fantine says, tugging on the end of a hair that’s fallen loose from the tie. “Plenty of rogues to fight on this ship.”

Whatever she might have said next is cut off by the approach of a naval sailor, and Fantine spins around, the sound of her dirk hitting his cutlass falling in the with the sounds of the battle around them and leaving Enjolras and Javert alone. Javert looks him up and down, eyeing the new cutlass and coat.

“She can’t protect you from me Rene,” Javert says, pointing his sword out in front of him, leaving no question of his intentions to fight. “No one can.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, words quiet.  “But the irony of this moment, Javert, is that you prepared me for it yourself. Every step, every move you make, I know. Because you never change. Masterful as your sword technique may be, it is perhaps, predictable to those who know you well.”

“Do not underestimate me, boy,” Javert says, withdrawing the use of his name. “You should know better.”

“I do,” Enjolras says, keeping calm against the fierce pounding of his heart, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “But you should know better than to underestimate me, I think.”

“I taught you everything you know, you ungrateful brat,” Javert says, but there’s an undeniable feeling in his eyes, visible because Enjolras knows him so well, no matter the passing of the years, but there’s a tinge of madness in the way his nostrils flare, and Enjolras tightens his grip on the cutlass, sensing the heightened danger.

“A great deal,” Enjolras replies. “But not everything.”

Javert places his blade against the edge of Enjolras' own and Enjolras widens his stance, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

 "I suppose I should have made you play the pirate in our games after all.”

“Sometimes you did,” Enjolras answers, stepping to the side, their blades still pressed together.

 _Beware me, pirate_ , Enjolras hears Javert say from the past, tapping his wooden sword against Enjolras’ own, trying not smile at the red bandana tied haphazardly around Enjolras’ unruly curls.

"I've only seen your draw so far in person,” Javert says, his voice an odd mix of gentleness and something like hatred all at once. “Though I’ve plenty of stories of your _lightning_ sword. Grant your old tutor a kindness, and show me the rest, won't you? One last… _game_ , shall we say.”

 _Last?_ Enjolras thinks.

“This is not a game, Javert,” Enjolras says. “You know that as well as me.”

Javert’s answer comes in the swing of his sword, which comes from the right side.

Enjolras parries.

From the left.

Enjolras parries again.

From above.

Enjolras’ sword comes in just in time to block Javert’s, but Javert presses down hard with his own.

“Fight me, boy,” Javert says, growing angrier. “I didn’t come here to watch you parry over and over.”

_Come on, you can hit harder than that._

_I will hit as hard as I see fit, René. I am much larger than you, remember._

With a burst of strength, Enjolras pushes Javert off, forcing him to retreat back, breathing hard.

“That’s better,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears something exceedingly off in his tone. “There’s no room for your softness here, Rene. Forget your memories. Forget you ever loved me. Remember that I am your enemy. And nothing more.

Enjolras feels something heavy form in the pit of his stomach, hears something resting beneath Javert’s words that he cannot quite yet unearth.

“I can’t forget those things Javert.”

 “Well you should!” Javert shouts, stepping across and spinning in place. Enjolras steps out of the way, but Javert’s blade swipes across his arm, and he feels blood dripping from the wound. But there’s not time to consider the stinging pain as Javert lunges forward toward him. Enjolras deflects the blow, finding himself backed up against the foremast, his own cutlass the only thing standing between Javert’s blade and his throat, his hat tumbling off onto the deck.

Enjolras’ eyes widen as Javert tries pushing forward with his blade, but he holds firm, arms shaking from the effort.

“Don’t fight me, Rene,” Javert grumbles, his voice falling into a whisper, and Enjolras hears that same gentleness from before.

“Just moments ago you were claiming I wasn’t fighting hard enough,” Enjolras argues through gritted teeth. “What’s the matter with you?”

“You are!” Javert shouts, then lowers his voice abruptly, the next words spoken almost to himself. “It’s easier this way.”

Ice forms in Enjolras’ veins, stabbing him, and he pulls back, both his sword and Javert’s dangerously close to his own face, then pushes forward, kicking one foot against Javert’s stomach and knocking the air out of him, forcing him away. Enjolras holds his sword out as Javert coughs, regaining his air from the kick and wiping his still bleeding nose with the back of his hand, the blood streaking across.

“What’s easier, Javert?” Enjolras asks.

Javert doesn’t answer but holds his sword in a similar fashion, and they circle each other, glaring.

“Do you know what it was like to watching your father break down in my sitting room?” Javert asks. “Watching him sob until he could barely catch his breath? Because of you? To watch him, over these past few days, consider breaking the laws he once held so dear to save you, who spat on all of his attempts?”

“We’ve all suffered, Javert,” Enjolras says, their blades close but not touching. “We’ve all shed tears. I am not going to stay behind lock and key in my father’s house, let alone my grandfather. I will not watch my friends go to their deaths.”

“No, you would be a criminal instead and you would consort with criminals. With your precious Valjean,” Javert says. “After everything you were taught, after everything you were given.” He pauses, that feeling in his eyes again. “Do you know what it was like to sit outside that jail cell and imagine that boy I knew with a rope around his neck? To know that even still, after everything you’ve done, that it still caused me pain? What wretched, terrible weakness.”

Enjolras sees that gleam of madness again in Javert’s face, and then, it all clicks into place.

“You’re trying to kill me,” Enjolras says, simple and without elaboration, and if someone asked him to articulate his emotions in this moment, he’s not sure he could. He hears the six-year old boy in his voice who asked this man to play, who leapt joyfully into the air when he walked in the door, mixed with the crushing disappointment of the adolescent and the fury of the adult, who will not let this man slay him until he’s fought to his last breath. “To stop my father from doing anything you might deem foolish to save me.”

“He can’t save you now,” Javert says, and he doesn’t refute the statement. “The Admiral has all but called off the deal because you escaped. I won’t have him ruin his life to save someone who isn’t grateful. And curse every piece of my own weak soul, but I would rather kill you myself than have your father watch you walk to the gallows.”

Enjolras looks down at Javert’s hands for a second, and when he focuses, he sees how they tremble.

Enjolras looks at Javert again, the final piece becoming clear.

“ _You_ don’t want to watch me walk to the gallows either. But you also don’t want to break the law,” Enjolras says, and Javert holds his gaze, not looking away. “You want to kill me…out of mercy.”

“You don’t deserve it,” Javert says, and at those words Enjolras feels a smack of emotion strike him, empathy and sadness and fear all mixed together, but overpowered by an anger that makes his face hot. “But it’s the only thing I can give you. You’ve grown rotten, Rene. It’s best to put you out of your misery.”

“This is now how you show mercy, Javert,” Enjolras says, a snarl making its way into his voice. “This is not how you show love.”

“Do not lecture me about love, boy,” Javert says. “You ungrateful wretch. If you knew what it meant, you wouldn’t treat your father this way. You wouldn’t abandon your family. Loyalty, Rene.”

“Says the man trying to kill me,” Enjolras shoots back. “We have very different definitions of love, I fear.”

“Show me your sword Rene,” Javert replies. “Show me what I taught you before this ends.”

This time, Enjolras swings his sword first.

They cross blades again and again and again, and then a memory drops into Enjolras’ brain, giving him an idea.

He remembers a sword lesson on the deck of the _ Navigator_, his father and grandfather watching, and how he’d shocked Javert with an unexpected move.

The empty fade.

He leaps backwards then leaps forward again with his feet in the same orientation, the side of his sword slashing against Javert’s right thigh, and the older man falters, clenching his teeth, his hand going to the wound.

“Regretting teaching me that now, Javert?”

Javert lets go of his wound, advancing forward toward Enjolras, and Enjolras passes back, moving his front foot behind him, their blades meeting overhead. Enjolras takes a risk, feeling the anger and the instinct pulsing hot and loud in his ears, spinning around and using one foot to kick Javert in the side, nearly topping him over. In response Javert swings at him with his free hand, fingers curled into a fist, but Enjolras dodges, and Javert misses, his hand punching nothing but air as Enjolras’ sword rips through the back of his jacket, leaving a thin, surface cut on the skin.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Javert,” Enjolras says, several paces apart from him now. “You asked me to show you, well. Perhaps you should have thought that through first. I’m not going to lay down and let you kill me.”

Javert responds by running at him, their swords crossing again. Javert’s pace grows frenetic but Enjolras meets it, his own swings more precise even as Javert’s become uncharacteristically sloppy, and he’s nearly knocked the cutlass from Javert’s hand when he feels his foot slip out from under him on a slick patch of deck. He falls, holding tight to his cutlass as his knees hit the wood with a hard pain that shoots up through his legs. His hair falls out of its tie completely, and Javert moves in behind him, yanking and holding some of it by the roots. Just before Javert places the blade against his throat, Enjolras puts his hand up, the sharp side of the cutlass landing against it, but not quite cutting into his skin. He breathes in, steadying himself, and knowing just how easily Javert’s sword might push his hand out of the way.

Somewhere across the deck of the _Misericorde_ , he hears Fantine scream his name, but out of the corner of his eyes he sees a naval officer step in her way, engaging her. He also hears something that sounds like Feuilly’s shout from far off, but it drowns in the chaos of the battle.

“Going to kill me, Javert?” Enjolras asks.

“You led us here,” Javert says, voice like stone and yet still, it trembles. “You brought us to this place. The blame is not mine. It’s yours.”

“My father will never forgive you,” Enjolras says. “And you know it. This is no accident of battle, no misdirected bullet that he could perhaps understand.”

“He will be safe,” Javert insists. “He will not lose his own life trying to save yours, if he grows that desperate. That’s more important than how he feels about me. He cannot endure you walking to the gallows, Rene. He will not survive it.”

“Can you endure this?” Enjolras asks, and Javert pushes harder with the blade, finally breaking the skin of Enjolras’ hand. “Can you live with yourself?”

“Apologize, Rene,” Javert says, ignoring the question. “Ask for the forgiveness you could never deserve. Admit that all this time, I’ve been right, that your father was right, and perhaps it will cleanse your black soul before it departs this earth. If you’re so concerned about my feelings, then grant me that.”

“I am not going to beg you,” Enjolras says, trying with every ounce of his strength to cut the shaking from his voice. It’s not death itself that causes his upset, he’d always known it was a very real risk with the choices he’s made; it’s the man who stands poised to grant it to him. “And you know better than to think I would.”

“Do it,” Javert hisses, the blade an inch from Enjolras’ throat as the tears rush into Javert’s voice.

“No,” Enjolras says, voice steady now. “I will not.”

“I couldn’t save you from being a pirate,” Javert says, and Enjolras is certain this is the most emotion he’s ever heard in the other man’s voice. “Let me save you from the noose. One flick of my wrist, and it's all over. I can grant your father peace. I can save you from a mob who would like nothing more than to draw out your death with unimaginable pain.”

“Death by the sword isn’t painless, Javert.”

“I’ll make it as quick as I can,” Javert says, and within his voice Enjolras hears him talking to the child he met that night on the deck, and not the grown man at his feet. “Your suffering was not my intent.”

“Only my death,” Enjolras retorts. “You are _lost_ , Javert,” Enjolras continues, keeping his eye on the blade. “Part of me wants to say I wish I’d never asked you to play with me that night. That I wish I’d never spent time hoping for a reconciliation. But I can’t. If it comes to that, I’d rather die side by side with my friends in a noose than by the sword of a man who used to carry me home from the beach. That’s love, Javert. This isn’t.”

In front of him, he sees Javert’s blade move back ever so much, and takes his chance. He grasps the edge of the cutlass with his palm, ignoring the pain and ignoring the blood, using Javert’s split second of shock to elbow the other man in the thigh near his fresh wound, sliding away and standing back up, his sword coming up meeting Javert’s again just as it swings down.

Then, Enjolras takes the biggest risk of all.

He spins fully around, the flat of his blade hitting Javert in the side, stunning him, then he kicks against Javert’s stomach again and Javert falls, smashing down to the deck, spitting blood from his mouth. Enjolras takes advantage of Javert’s loosened grip on the cutlass, kicking it away across the deck, seeing Courfeyrac run over and pick it up, spotting them. Enjolras points his sword at Javert, keeping him down, and when he turns his gaze he sees his father, Valjean, and Fantine just nearby, Fantine’s hands resting on Valjean’s chest and keeping him back, Michel’s eyes widened in shock.

And then, another presence behind him, and a voice in his ear that anchors him back to the earth, clearing the rage in his head.

“Careful Rene,” Combeferre says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Steady.”

And then, words meant for Combeferre’s ears only.

“He tried to slit my throat,” Enjolras says, keeping his voice low so his father doesn’t hear.

“I know,” Combeferre says, words barely audible. “That’s why I ran over here.”

“Did my father see?”

“No,” Combeferre says. “He just saw you with your swords crossed before you knocked him down.”

Javert’s voice draws his attention away from Combeferre and back down.

"Do as you will, Rene" Javert spits, but Enjolras sees the glimmer of fear in his eyes mixing with the madness. "Or are we still playing make believe? I believe the victory is yours."

Javert’s voice.

_The victory is mine, scoundrel. Now surrender._

His own voice.

_I will never surrender to the English Navy. Or to the East India Trading Company. I would die first._

_Oh but this isn’t a game_ , the ache in his chest reminds him. It’s nothing close. And this time he’s not a child laying on the deck playing pirate. He is the pirate, and Javert is at his mercy.

“Rene,” he hears his father say, but it sounds somewhere far off in the distance. “Back away from Nicholas, please.”

Enjolras' grip on the sword tightens, feeling his brain click into place, logic and emotion battling for advantage, each driven by the other.

Memories of Javert invade his mind, sharp, clear, and colorful, no longer faded versions of themselves. The slash on his arm throbs, keeping him firmly in the present even as the past lays before him in the form of man who used to be like his brother until everything splintered apart, each choosing a side years before the lines were even drawn. The tip of his sword rests against Javert's chest, blood from Javert's nose dripping down around it.

 _He’s a threat,_ one voice says _. Not just to you, but to everyone you love_. _To everything you hold dear_. _He is a shining example of the society you fight against, much as you wish, much as you think he should be, on your side._

 _You loved him_ , says another. _Think of his mother, somewhere on this ship. Think of your father, standing here._

 _He tried to kill you_ , the other voice counters.

_And you would return the favor?_

"Rene," Combeferre says, a whisper in his ear. "You will regret it. I know you will.  He was like your brother."

Enjolras feels tears well in his eyes, one slipping loose and running down his cheek.

The weakness Javert so despised.

"He was," Enjolras says, putting more pressure against Javert's chest with the sword. "But he is dangerous. He is a threat to everything we stand for."

"I know," Combeferre says, and the warmth in his voice reminds Enjolras how very safe Combeferre always makes him feel, how he rights him and keeps him grounded, even as he lets him fly. "But we won't let him win. Blood is inevitably on our hands. But don't do this. Don't do to him exactly what he'd do to you. Don’t make yourself live with something like this."

Enjolras stares back at Javert, whose face is unreadable, then removes his sword.

"Bahorel!" he calls out. "Take this scoundrel to the brig."

Bahorel appears with Gavroche in tow, looking uncharacteristically solemn, a pair of manacles in his hands.

“Rene,” Michel says, stepping forward as Courfeyrac points Javert’s own sword at him while Bahorel manacles Javert’s hands, he and Gavroche both taking one arm. “You can’t do this. Just give Nicholas to me.”

“No,” Enjolras says, swiping his hand through the air. “I’m not leaving one of your best swordsman roaming free while this battle goes on. No harm will come to him.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?” Michel asks. “Look what’s going on.”

“Because I’ve ordered my men to leave him be if he stays put,” Enjolras says. “And they’ll do as I ask.”

“Don’t worry yourself Michel,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears him allow a surprising amount of clear affection into his voice. “I’ll be all right.”

“Nicholas,” Michel tries to say as Bahorel and Gavroche pull Javert away, but his sentence is cut off by another, higher voice.

“Rene!”

Enjolras jolts, spinning around and seeing his mother running toward him, dressed in what looks like some of his father’s very old clothes, long blond hair unraveling from its braid beneath the tricorn hat.

“Rene,” she repeats, looking over at Valjean and Fantine with an almost exhilarated smile and avoiding Michel’s shocked gaze before taking Enjolras’ hands in hers, squeezing them and Enjolras shakes his head, uncertain if she’s real. “I saw you fighting with Javert and for a moment, I thought…”

“Astra what on earth?” Michel interrupts. “What are you…how? Explain yourself.”

“I stole one of your old uniforms and snuck aboard the _Navigator_ ,” Astra says, shockingly forthcoming. Enjolras sees Fantine raise her eyebrows and smirking, impressed.

“What were you thinking?” Michel asks, stepping close to them now. “This is not a game, Astra. This is a battle. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not hurt,” Astra says, and Enjolras holds her hands closer to him. “And I’m fully aware of what this is, Michel. And I wasn’t going to be left behind. Not again. Not today.”

Michel rubs a hand up and down his face as if that will rid him of his shock, as if it will rid him of the sight of his pirate son and his wife dressed in men’s clothing and standing before him in the middle of a raging battle.

“It’s too dangerous out here to even have this discussion,” Michel says. “You could be hit by a bullet or stray cannon fire or any great number of things.” He puts his arm out, trying to slip it around her waist and lead her away, but she steps back.

“Astra,” Michel says, stern and losing patience. “Come with me now, I need to get you somewhere safe on the _Navigator_.”

“No,” Astra says, and at that single word Enjolras steps in front of her, blocking his father’s way.

“Rene don’t you dare,” Michel says. “Give your mother to me.”

“She said no,” Enjolras says. “And I think it’s about time someone, especially you, listened to her.”

“What are you going to do?” Michel asks, voice rising now. “Hide her on your pirate ship?”

Before Enjolras even speaks the words Fantine swoops in, taking Astra under her arm and whisking her off to the captain's cabin on the _Liberte_ , Valjean following close behind as protection, one hand clasping Enjolras’ fingers before he goes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac linger nearby, staving off anyone who might approach Enjolras and Michel.

“Astra!” Michel calls out, voice strangled stepping forward as if to stop them, but Enjolras simply steps in his way. There's a pause, and Enjolras hears his own breath despite the multitude of sounds around him. Michel reaches out for his wrist in a sudden flash of movement, but Enjolras notices, pulling away and seizing his father's hand instead.

Michel doesn't pull away, but he does look down, and Enjolras realizes the hand that holds his father's was the one he used to push Javert’s cutlass away, and it’s slick with blood. Michel’s other hand rests lightly on the hilt of his cutlass as if he might draw, but he holds still, staring at his son.

"I will not cross swords with you," Enjolras says, firm. "Do not make me cross swords with my own father. I am asking you not to force me to that."

Michel removes his hand from the cutlass, and it falls awkwardly to the side, balling into a loose fist.

"You think you can send Javert to the brig and simply take your mother off to your ship without recompense?" Michel asks, and though his fury is cut through with grief, with fear, it still rings loud and genuine.

"Yes," Enjolras says simply.

Michel's eyes widen, staring at him again. Enjolras knows he must look a sight, his hair wild, Courfeyrac's hat long lost in the heat of his fight with Javert, his arm and his hand covered in his own blood, gunpowder streaked black across his cheek, sea water dripping from the edges of his coat.

"This is who you are then," Michel says, but he still isn't letting go. "This pirate. This..."

"Monster?" Enjolras finishes for him when his father trails off.

"You considered killing Javert," Michel says, pushing the matter, but still not saying the word. "I saw it here, in front of my eyes."

 _Javert was going to kill me_ , Enjolras wants to say. But even here, now, in the middle of everything, he cannot put that splinter into his father and Javert's friendship. Even if Javert was doing it out of some twisted version of mercy, he cannot explain that to Michel here, cannot explain Javert's crumbling psyche to a man whose own mind falls to pieces as they speak.

"I didn't," Enjolras says. "And that's the point."

"But if you didn't know him," Michel persists. "If he didn't mean something to you, you would have."

"I can't answer that," Enjolras replies. "Because I don't know. My hands are not clean," Enjolras continues, looking at their joined fingers, blood drying into the crevices of skin on both hands. "But neither are yours."

“Come back with me,” Michel says, a few tears falling from his eyes. “Please. I’ll take you away. You and Frantz. No locked doors. No doctors. No grandfather. You’ll be free together like you always wanted.”

“We already are,” Enjolras says. “And we want to make sure others are as well. I will not go with you.”

Michel does try and pull his hand away now, pain and guilt and terror ringing his eyes, but Enjolras holds it tighter, pulling his father forward, and Michel doesn't resist.

"If we survive this," Enjolras says, a pleading in his voice he cannot stomp out. "Come to Nassau. And show me who you are."

Enjolras lets go, disappearing back into the battle. Michel stands still, staring after him, a smear of his son’s blood staining his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh cliffhangers are fun, aren't they? I bet I've convinced some of you that I'm getting near the end of the fic, but there's actually a big handful of chapters left, so hopefully you are in for the ride! :D


	25. Book III (Swirling up From the Sea): Part 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mothers reunite with their sons, and with each other. Astra finds herself more at home among pirates than she ever did in Jamaica, even as the cannons roar around her. Javert struggles and makes bad choices. Michel makes better ones. The battle continues on as the Amis, Valjean & co remain locked in a dead heat with Michel and Javert's forces until finally, one moment brings it to a grinding halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on this one:
> 
> You'll see the words "chikni" and "dai" which according to my research are the Romani words for son and mother respectively, but I am not certain my sources are correct, and there are also many many many dialects of the language but these were all I could find. Tiena is Sinte Farouche Romani, the group that largely took root in places like France, but it was near to impossible to finds specific dialects, so this was the best I could do. 
> 
> Also I mention matelotage, which is...kind of like an early form of gay marriage, a bit? In that they could name each other the sole-inheritor and own property together. Only applied to men I believe, as most pirates were men, but I dunno if there was ever an instance of women asking for it? Anyhow, if you'd like to look it up it's interesting!
> 
> Also just a general warning for blood, injury, and period medical stuff here. Nothing too graphic at all but still, it's there and I just wanted to make note.

**Book III (Swirling up from Sea): Part 9**

**Aboard the Liberte.**

“Down!”

Astra hears Valjean’s voice echo into the air, and then he’s seizing her, covering her with his body and pushing her to the deck, Fantine sinking low in front of them as a cannon ball whizzes overhead, missing the mark of the rigging and plunking in the water. Astra releases a breath, forgetting in the moment as the projectile soared over their heads. Valjean helps her up from the deck, keeping his arm around her and smiling awkwardly while Fantine swoops in on the other side. Fantine pulls out her dirk as an East India officer approaches, obviously mistaking this for a kidnapping. Her weapon swipes against his arm, distracting him enough so that he falters.

“You’re quite talented with that,” Astra observes as they run, unsure of what to say, but still impressed.

“Thank you,” Fantine says, smiling broadly at her.

“Inside, quickly,” Valjean says once they reach the captain’s cabin, ushering them both in and shutting the door, the two girls who were guarding the entrance following them inside. “I’m afraid you’re not entirely safe anywhere,” he says, apologetic. “But this is one of the safest spots.”

“Thank you,” Astra says, sincere. “I appreciate it more than you know.”

“Is this Rene’s mother?” one of the girls asks, approaching, and Astra thinks she looks very much like Fantine.

“She is,” Fantine says, smiling and pulling her daughter forward. “Astra…” she pauses. “May I call you that?”

“Of course,” Astra says, and the two women who were already in the cabin come over, joining them. “No formalities here, please. I’ve had rather enough of that.”

“Well, Astra, this is my daughter, Cosette and our good friend Eponine,” Fantine continues. “They’ll be the ones keeping an eye on the door and preventing anyone from entering, hopefully. I trained them myself.”

Eponine nods in greeting, giving Astra a quick smile, but Cosette steps closer, clasping her hands together.

“Oh I am so pleased to meet you!” she says, bouncing back and forth from toes to heels. “Rene talks about you all the time, and how he misses you terribly.”

“I’m pleased to meet you too,” Astra says, drawn back into the past, remembering Fantine’s face that dark night as she spoke of her daughter, of how sad and burdened she’d looked, and what a contrast that was from now.

“Thank you for what you did for my mother,” Cosette says, reaching out a hand and grasping Astra’s briefly. “And Papa Valjean. They might not be here without you. You were so brave.”

“You’re most welcome dear,” Astra says, returning the squeeze. “And I rather think your mother and Valjean are very brave themselves, and you as well. All of you. I know Rene loves all of you a great deal.”

Fantine smiles, gesturing at one of the other women, who Astra recognizes. “And I believe you two may know each other?”

“Chantal,” Astra says and the other woman smiles. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” Chantal says, hesitating before taking Astra’s hands in hers. “I’m glad to see you here, although I’m sure there could be…better circumstances.”

“And this is Tiena Javert,” Fantine says, looking a bit apprehensive given the circumstances of her son. “She is a good friend of ours. She and Chantal run a shop together on Nassau.”

“Oh,” Astra breathes, realizing Tiena’s gray eyes are identical to Javert’s, her long dark hair resting over her shoulder in a loose braid. Tiena returns her greeting smile, reserved and holding secrets, a mirror of Astra’s own. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“And you,” Tiena replies.

There’s the sound of a scuffle near the door and Fantine turns, looking anxious.

“We’d best go,” she says, gaze darting toward Tiena. “Tiena I…I’m afraid your son’s in the brig below. “He and Rene…”

Tiena holds up a hand. “It’s all right Fantine. I believe I can fill in the blanks for myself.”

“No harm will come to him,” Valjean says.

_Unless he forces us_ , is what Valjean doesn’t say.

The sound of the scuffle grows closer, and the group of them head toward the door, weapons poised. Fantine turns once more before going, gaze landing on Astra.

“If this goes our way I look forward to talking to you,” she says, grasping Astra’s fingers, and even if the years and circumstances separated them, Astra feels she already has a friend. “I have been wishing I could for a long time.”

“So have I,” Astra says, squeezing Fantine’s hand. “I hope we get the chance.”

After another moment they’re gone, and Astra hears Fantine shout something like _you bastard_ before someone hits the deck heavily. There’s another male voice, decidedly not Valjean’s, cheering her on from somewhere nearby, sounding cheerful.

“You show him, darling!”

“Women in battle,” Astra says, almost to herself, feeling excitement course through her despite the dire situation. “Extraordinary.”

“How did you get here Astra?” Chantal asks. “It’s been a long time, but I don’t recall Michel being the sort who would let his wife travel along.”

“No,” Astra says. “He was struck dumb when he saw me. I…snuck aboard, actually. Hence these clothes,” she continues, gesturing at the breeches. “There was a lot of chaos after the boys escaped, after….everything that happened.” She looks around, eyes taking in the setting, a particular warmth settling into her chest as she processes her surroundings. “This is Rene’s cabin,” she continues. “Oh I…I’ve _dreamed_ about what this might look like, picturing him on his ship when I began suspecting who he was.”

“He shares it with Frantz and Auden,” Chantal says. “They’re inseparable, the three of them.”

“They are,” Astra says, running her hand over the edge of the desk, recognizing Rene’s handwriting in the ship log, much the same as it was when he was young, hurried, as if the words in his head would disappear if he didn’t write quickly enough.

“Rene’s long spoken of wishing he could bring you to Nassau,” Chantal says, coming over to the desk and putting a hand over Astra’s and Astra feels more understood here, now, by this woman she hasn’t seen in years, than she ever did inside her own home. “They told me how you helped them get out of Port Royal. You saved them.”

“They saved themselves I think,” Astra corrects, looking back at Chantal. “I simply helped.”

“I would call it an act of true bravery,” Tiena adds, sounding shy. “If I may. We have all been separated from our sons, haven’t we? And Fantine from her daughter. I think we all know well how terrible it must have been to let Rene, Frantz, and Auden go, even if it was what’s best.”

“I will never forget it,” Astra whispers, and she thinks that every day for the past twelve years she’s felt the ghost of Rene’s hand slipping from hers. She looks at Tiena who stands back a few inches from the two of them as if fearing rejection. “I am sorry about…Nicholas,” Astra says, the first name tasting strange on her tongue. “But I am certain they’ll try to prevent harm to him.”

“I’m afraid Nicholas has backed himself into this corner,” Tiena says, pain lining the outside of her words. “But you have known him a long time, haven’t you?”

“Since he was about one and twenty I believe,” Astra says. She laughs softly, recalling the earlier days. “I’m afraid Michel and Arthur rather didn’t give him a choice about seeing them as not just commanding officers, but friends. He ended up looking after Rene and Frantz a great deal. I’m not sure he quite knew what to make of it, but he seemed…happy. Then, well. I’m sure both of you know pieces of the story.”

“I am glad he was happy,” Tiena says, wistful. “But I…even if he could not go so far as to condone piracy, he is still wrong about a great many things. And unless that changes I fear it will prevent him from ever being truly content. But if I can I may risk it and go down to speak to him. I suppose this time he cannot order me away.”

There’s a vulnerable crack in Tiena’s face, some of the mystery melting away, and Chantal puts a hand on her friend’s shoulder in comfort.

The sound of the cannons reverberates in the cabin, and Astra puts a hand over her heart, steadying herself. As often as she’s read news about ship battles and lived as a captain’s wife, as a pirate’s mother, she has never experienced one firsthand, and the image of Rene smeared with his own blood haunts her. She hasn’t seen his scars yet, but she’s seen Michel’s, and she’s certain her son bears them as well. Michel’s face swims before her, agonized and lined with grief, but _oh_ she is so _angry_ at him, yet she could never wish harm to him, can never quite step away from the affection she feels when she sees genuine smile that used to grace his face so often. She _knows_ he can change, but she’s still not certain if he knows the same. Worry burrows in the pit of her stomach for both her son and her husband, for Frantz and Auden, for Fantine and Valjean, for everyone fighting above them.

“It takes a bit of getting used to,” Chantal says, leading Astra over to Rene’s bed. “Tiena and I usually stay on Nassau, but we’ve both seen battle before.”

“Do you ever worry less?” Astra asks.

“No,” Chantal says, shaking her head. “But this is the way our sons do their part in changing our society and I’m proud of them, even if it troubles me to know that one day I could receive the worst news of all.”

“Well you two are quite brave yourselves you know,” Astra says. “Living on Nassau, even if you aren’t sailing often. You’re all just…you’ve been through so much, and yet live boldly like this, knowing it could end any minute.”

“One grows used to it,” Tiena says, still standing back from Astra and Chantal, a guilt in her eyes. “Chantal and I have had a good many years to discuss it, but Astra I am…I am sorry for the hurt Nicholas caused Rene. For the hurt he still causes him.”

Astra studies her for a moment, then reaches out her hand, holding the palm up. Tiena looks unsure for a moment then reaches back, lightly grasping Astra’s hand in return as Chantal reaches out for her other one.

“Rene and Nicholas’ swords were always going to cross,” Astra says. “And I do not know what will happen today. But I do think you have reason to hope for your son, Tiena. Truly. If we can all find a way to survive through this.”

“Thank you,” Tiena says, a mist in her eyes, and she blinks, clearing it away. “I have a difficult time putting my faith in things, I admit, but Rene and Valjean have assembled excellent crews. I do believe they can win this.”

“Michel doesn’t retreat easily,” Chantal says. “Not since he and Arthur were fighting boarding school bullies.”

“He doesn’t,” Astra says. “But he’s also conflicted. He’s guilty and full of regret. Desperate to save Rene and Frantz. And I think he’s realizing that perhaps _he_ turned into the bully. I see him wishing to change, I see the better parts of him taking over, he just…he needs to give them credence. He…he’s hurt our sons. He let my father hurt them. But he’s also hurt countless others with his participation in the slave trade.” She looks up at Chantal, seeing hard memories resting in her eyes of a world Astra’s only seen terrible glimpses of. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Chantal. Arthur looked high and low for you.”

“I know he did,” Chantal says, lips forming a shaky smile. “I know. It was like a dream when Frantz came up to me that day on the slave ship, Rene and Auden behind him. Arthur would be proud of them. Hopefully one day Michel will learn he should be too.”

“I hope so,” Astra says, another blast of the cannon roaring above them. “I really do.”

“We are glad you’re here Astra,” Chantal says. “Despite the circumstance. It feels like we’ve been waiting for you.”

“It certainly does,” Tiena says, holding Astra’s hand a little tighter.

“Thank you,” Astra says, throat closing around the words, hand grasping at the blankets on her son’s bed. She remembers the words she spoke to Fantine and Valjean years ago of the gilded cage she lived in, golden, but still a entrapment, and in the recesses of her mind, she hears a key scrape in the lock, hears the door open, and she steps out into what must be freedom.

She doesn’t know if it will last, or for how long, but she breathes it in, despite the smell of smoke and gunpowder outside.

* * *

When Tiena hears a brief lull in the battle, she takes her chance.

“I’ll be all right,” Tiena assures Cosette and Eponine when they give her worried expressions. “The brig should be safe from the fire. Though if this grows any more intense I might suggest taking Astra and Chantal to the cargo hold. They aren’t aiming for the stern now, but they may try if they grow frustrated at this stalemate.”

She slips down below toward the brig, surprised when she steps inside and finds it without guard. She looks into one of the cells, seeing Nicholas sitting on the floor, knees bent, head resting in his hands and mussing his long hair. She stands there for a few seconds, a terrible sadness welling up inside her. She steps forward anyway, and the creak in the wood alerts Javert to her presence. He looks up, his eyes tinged with red.

“I knew you were here,” he says without preamble, pulling the bracelet out of his pocket she made for him so long ago. “I assume you sent this with Valjean to let me know as much?”

“Partly,” Tiena answers. “And partly in the apparently foolish hope that you would find your better self. There’s no guard?”

“They couldn’t spare anyone, according the rogue who brought me down here,” Javert says. “Bahorel, or whatever his name is. And my _better_ self is not someone who roams around with thieves and criminals,” Javert argues. “I’m not your son anymore. I’m not that boy.”

 “You cannot escape the fact that you are,” she says, his words hitting her with a thud of pain.

“What are you doing here?” Javert asks. “Come to defy your pirate friends and unlock the door?”

“No,” Tiena says, and Javert does look surprised. “You are my son, but I will not betray them. You have not done anything to deserve it. Beside I imagine you are far safer in here that up there.”

“As if they won’t kill me the moment they get the chance,” Javert spits, turning away from her.

“You know they won’t,” Tiena replies. “They don’t execute people, Nicholas. But then I suppose only _civilized_ people do that. There is a difference between a battle and putting a rope around someone’s neck in front of a jeering crowd or a pistol to the head of a prisoner.”

Javert looks away, guilt lining his face, but it doesn’t wash away the resentment.

“You’re upset,” Tiena remarks. “You’re clenching your jaw like your father did. You’re like me in every other way, but that trait was his.”

“Kindly don’t remind me of any similarity to that man,” Javert says, crossing his arms over his chest. “He chose his thieving lifestyle over his family, didn’t he? Ended up in jail and then dead behind those bars and what good did that do us?”

_Family. Us_. Tiena grasps the words tight, holding onto them.

“Your father was not the most stable force, I understand,” Tiena admits. “He was not the best parent, but I did love him once, when he was better, even if you didn’t see much of that. We did the best we could, _chikni_.”

“Do not call me that,” Javert says, whipping around and glaring at her, wincing when it irritates what must be a cut on his back, his hand going toward the wound on his leg.

“That looks nasty,” Tiena says, unable to entirely keep the softness out of her voice. “What did you do, Nicholas?” Tiena presses. “I know you fought with Rene, and you look guilty. You’re horrid at hiding it, which is why you could never lie to me as a child.”

Javert doesn’t answer, but he does meet her gaze as if he thinks this will compensate for his silence. She studies his face, sees his quickened breathing, his reddened eyes.

Then, she realizes.

“You tried to kill him,” she says. “You tried to kill Rene.”

“Yes,” he answers, hanging onto the last letter like a hiss. He leans forward, and for the first time in her memory, Tiena fears her son; he scowls at her, eyes flashing with anger, the hair slipping from the tie, black strands hanging in his face, a few tinged with gray, blood caked in the crevices of his hands.

“What is the _matter_ with you?” she whispers. “You and I do not agree, that is certain. But this I did not expect of you. You _sought_ to kill him.”

“And he considered killing me just as much,” Javert says. “He is not innocent in this.”

“He considered it _after_ you tried to kill him first,” Tiena argues. “He’s never been able to let go of his love for you, just like I haven’t. No matter how you treated us. No matter that you pushed us both away from you. Me, when I returned to you that night, after searching for years. Him when he was a mere boy.  We always shared that experience. And no matter how adamantine Rene may be, I can imagine how that would affect him.”

Javert stands up now, limping toward the door. He wraps his hands around the bars, the two of them inches away from each other now.

“I worked hard. I became someone worthy of respect so that no one would dare question my past when they looked at me and saw I did not quite look like the rest,” he says, and she cannot look away. “When I did not speak of my family or my past. It was not easy, and I bear the scars from the struggle. But then, save a few early errors, I was irreproachable. I was upstanding. And more than even that, I…” he trails off for a second, eyes looking sad. “I belonged somewhere. I never sought that. I never expected it. And yet my wretched caring threatens to tear my reputation from me, forcing me to choose between the law and people that I…”

“Love?”

“People I should not care about if they were in the gutter!” Javert shouts. “People who have broken every law. People who are morally reprehensible. I tried to kill Rene because he is rotten. Because in my weakness I could not imagine watching him walk to the noose. If this goes ill for him he will walk toward his execution with his head held high, stubborn and proud as he always was, even as he swings from the rope. I wonder, when that terrible pain hits him, if he will remember that I tried to save him from it.”

As he speaks the cannons roar again, shaking the _Liberte_. When the noise lessens, Tiena’s voice takes its place, clear and punctuated with grief.

“You said that night when you turned me away that I was your shame,” she says, tears rolling down her face now. “Today, you are mine.”

Javert lets out an involuntary gasp, her words stinging him.

“I was trying to save Michel from himself,” Javert says, voice trembling. “From breaking every code he holds dear to save Rene and Frantz. He will ruin his life. He might even lose it.”

“No parent would want their child dead,” Tiena says. “No parent who held even a shred of love for them, anyway. How could you think _that_ was the right choice? I can assure you that Michel would rather anything than see his son dead. _He_ would rather be dead.”

Javert averts his eyes again, hands still grasping the bars.

“You regret it,” Tiena surmises, speaking her thoughts aloud. “Don’t you?”

“I do not know what I do and do not regret, anymore,” Javert says, hoarse. “What I do know is that my men are out there, fighting this battle without me. That Michel is without me. And because of that, I have failed both them and the man who gave me much without my ever having to ask for it.”

“You are a talented captain, Nicholas,” Tiena says. “A dedicated friend, if the person fits your bill of correct behavior. One day, I hope you can find within yourself to truly be a good man. Good men are not without flaw. Good men are not irreproachable. But good men make choices that might be contrary to the status quo. And that is what you have always failed to grasp. Wanting to serve your society is not a bad thing, but never questioning who and what you serve? That is an egregious error, I’m afraid. But then, I know Rene and Valjean both have told you so. I am only repeating it.”

He makes no answer, and she finds her courage, reaching up and brushing her fingers lightly against his.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“Goodbye, Nicholas,” she says, part of her screaming to search for the key to the cell to let him out, to make him free, but she cannot. She _will_ not betray her friends, the people who have accepted her into their circle. “I expect I’ll see you again soon.” She pauses, gazing at him again, and missing him so desperately, even as he stands before her. “Please, be careful. I would not…I would not wish to see you harmed. But I expect you know that.”

“She turns to go, but his voice draws her back around, when for a brief beat, he sounds like the little boy she knew.

“Dai…” the word slips from his mouth without his permission, but then he falls silent again, the sentence remaining unfinished, and Tiena leaves, all the words not said sitting with a dull, thudding ache in her chest.

* * *

After his mother leaves, Javert contemplates the cell door. There’s only two cells in total in the brig at all, and in his rush Bahorel selected the one with the rustiest, least secure lock. In truth Javert scarcely blames him; they can’t spare a man from above to watch him, and the pirate was no doubt eager to return to his cannons. The lock might be easy to pick, he surmises, if only he had something to pick it _with_. They’d been thorough with checking him for weapons, taking everything all the way down to the small knife he kept in his pocket, his prized cutlass no doubt still in Enjolras’ possession like some kind of ironic twist of their first meeting.

He smacks his fist on the bars in frustration, only adding to the general throbbing pain overtaking his entire body. The thin cut on his back stings, his ribs ache from where Enjolras kicked him, his arms sore from fighting, his wounded leg hurting most of all, the cut deeper than he initially realized. He runs his hands absentmindedly over the medals on his coat, and then, an idea occurs to him.

They might be his way out.

He unpins the largest one from his lapel; it was given to him upon his promotion to captain after he’d caught one of his largest pirate prizes and pinned upon his new coat on the deck of the _Chase_. He squints, placing the pin inside the lock and jiggling.

Nothing.

He turns the pin instead, the metal scraping against the rust until he hears the tell-tale click of it unlocking, feeling an odd, misplaced grin stretch across his face.

_Ah_ , says the voice inside his mind. _But what will you do now?_

He shakes his head, pushing the door open gingerly so as not to alert anyone, though he doubts they could hear him anyway. He walks carefully up the stairs, turning around and looking in every direction, re-tracing his steps through the ship’s maze of rooms and halls that rest below deck before he sees the door, a chink of light filtering through.

When he opens it, he stops short.

Used to sea warfare as he is, the sight before him sends a swift kick to his stomach. Dead and wounded men from both sides lay across the deck, and he cannot tell how many of each there are. Smoke hangs in the air, fading the red smeared across all four ships, wood spattered everywhere, holes scattered through various parts of the rigging. He walks forward slowly, spotting some weapons laying around, finding he cannot make himself look down at the owners to see if they’re living or dead. No one has the advantage, but no one wants to surrender either, a sense of desperate exhaustion enveloping the entire area, the sky still gray above them.

He finds a still loaded pistol and a cutlass, holding both in his hands as he’s without his shoulder belt to carry them. Out of instinct rather than rational thought, he leaves the _Liberte_ , not heading for Valjean on the _Misericorde_ or to his own men on the _Chase,_ but toward the _Navigator_ , the place where all of this began. He doesn’t see Michel anywhere and doesn’t know how he’d face him if he did.

He almost _killed_ Rene.

It was _right_.

It was _not_.

_You are my shame_ , his mother said.

_I know you don’t think Rene mad, Javert, and yet you stood by, letting this go on. I can only imagine what you put him through over it. It is a mercilessness I didn’t expect in you, no matter our immense differences_ , he hears Valjean say, judgement in every syllable.

Two familiar figures move in front of him, interrupting his thoughts, their cutlasses clanging together with a particular ferocity. On one side is Anderson, Javert’s first mate, his hat lost and his hair askew, his face covered in small scratches. The second is the young man who looks so like Valjean. _Jahni_ , Javert thinks he’s heard him called, or _Feuilly_. Not Valjean’s son, Javert thinks, but a nephew perhaps? He remembers Valjean stole in the first place, so he said, to feed his sister’s seven children. He sees Feuilly quicken his footwork, sees Anderson’s step falter, his grip on the cutlass loosening under duress. Javert sees the dead and wounded naval officers in his mind’s eye, all the men lost or injured while he’d gotten himself landed in the brig for losing to a _pirate_ , and then, he makes a choice. He aims his pistol for Feuilly, but somehow through the chaos Anderson sees him, eyes widening just enough in surprise that it alerts Javert’s target. Feuilly turns, the pieces flying together in his head and he steps out of the path of the gun just as Javert fires.

But then, someone else inadvertently steps in, his back to Javert as he crosses cutlasses with an East India officer, red coat fluttering in the wind.  

"Rene, watch out!" Feuilly shouts, voice ragged because it's already too late. "Gun!"

Enjolras slides away from his opponent and turns around, meeting Javert’s eyes just as the bullet strikes him.

He falls immediately, the cutlass clattering to the deck as his hands instinctively reach for the wound, but through the haze and the throng of fighting men Javert cannot make out where it struck. He feels his heart smacking against his chest with rapid, uneven beats and not for the first time today, he wishes he could rip the thing from his chest like the Davy Jones legends of old he always reprimanded his sailors for telling.

_You were going to kill him earlier_ that voice says, growing more sinister. _So why does this bother you now?_

For a terrible second, Javert thinks Enjolras is dead. All of his actions come flooding back into his brain, the sword to Enjolras' throat, his promise to kill him quickly, begging him to let him take his life on the deck of his own ship.  Oh but now he cannot _bear_ the idea, he’s so _weak_.

_Rene I’m sorry_ , one voice says.

_You shouldn’t be_ , says another, colder one. _The boy’s rotten_.

What has he done? What has he _done_?

He's a pirate, he’s a pirate, he’s _pirate_.

It doesn’t matter it’s for the best it doesn’t _matter_.

He walks forward but he can’t see for all the fighting going on around him and Feuilly leaning over Enjolras and blocking Javert’s view. A strange buzzing starts in his head, mixing with the conversation from the other night outside the jail cell.

_Of course I was. Are you pleased I’m admitting it? Does it give you some sort of victory to know I haven’t been able to rid myself of that wretched affection for you? I imagine you’re happy at that weakness._

What if he’s dead what if he’s _dead_?

_Love is not a weakness, Javert. And that was always the problem with you. You loved against your better judgement. With restraint, with condition._

_You came here to make sure he was dead,_ he reminds himself _. To save him from the noose. To save Michel. To do your duty to both friend and your position all at once. To stay true to the law and your personal loyalties._

Javert bites his lip until it bleeds, keeping back the terrible, anguished noise threatening him from somewhere deep in his chest.

He wishes he never set foot on the _Navigator_ all those years ago.

All he wanted was to be irreproachable he didn’t want this he didn’t want this he didn’t want this.

Then, he hears the bitten back shout coming from Enjolras, pain in every inch of the sound, seeing Enjolras lift one of his hands, the same one Javert’s own blade cut, the whole thing smeared with red. The wound rests somewhere around the top of his left arm, just below his shoulder. Javert releases a breath.

_Not his sword arm_.

_Why does that matter?_ The other voice argues back. _If you wanted him dead earlier?_

But Javert knows any bullet wound poses a serious danger, infection and loss of limb chief among them where they are not immediately fatal.

_Look how you’ve wounded that boy you loved_ , the nasty voice says in his head _. Look at how he bleeds because of you._

_He deserved it,_ the other voice answers back. _Do not forget your own wounds at his hands._

"Joly!" he hears Feuilly shout, holding Enjolras' head in his lap now. "Someone get Joly!" He lowers his voice, speaking to Enjolras now. "Don't move Rene, I don't want you aggravate it."

"It's just..." Enjolras tries.

"Your arm, yes I know," Feuilly says. "It is not nothing, you might like to keep it."

A memory fills Javert’s brain, dusty and almost forgotten but now reappearing in bright color and roaring noise in his mind. A memory from before even Frantz came to live in Port Royal, and twenty-two-year-old Javert found himself as a child’s primary playmate. Rene had fallen while out on one of the abandoned docks and cut up his knee, blood flowing down his calf. He'd been given charge of the boy for a few hours, and though he offered to let Mrs. Hudson clean it up, Rene insisted on him. They sat down at the small table in the kitchen of the Enjolras household, the aforementioned housekeeper hovering in the background, watching them just in case. Though only seven, Rene was not particularly prone to tears, but they'd welled up in his eyes that day as Javert wiped away the blood.

_It hurts, Javert_ , he'd said, trying not to flinch. _Why is it bleeding so much?_

_These things tend to bleed a lot_ , Javert answered. _But it looks much worse than it is. It's just a bad scrape, I promise._

Rene had nodded, sitting still and wiping the tears from his eyes, trusting Javert inherently.

_Just a bad scrape._

"Just a bad scrape," he whispers without realizing, his own words drawing him back into the moment, seeing Enjolras laying on the deck of the same ship where they spent so many hours.

Without thinking, Javert steps forward toward Enjolras and Feuilly, reaching his hand out. But as soon as his fingers brush Enjolras’ arm, the younger man turns his head, flinching at the sight of Javert. His face remains a mask of marble, but his eyes give him away, full of anger and tinged with anxiety. Enjolras shoves Javert’s hand away with all the strength he can muster, but Javert can’t quite see the grown man pushing him off. All he sees is the boy, fallen to the deck and bleeding at his hands. Javert reaches again and this time Feuilly pushes his hand away, but Enjolras’ sharp and unforgiving words cut into the air.

“Don’t _touch_ me, Javert.”

A hand reaches out, grasping Javert’s coat and pulling him back, interrupting any response. Javert doesn’t even know who grasps him and he doesn’t try and free himself, his fingers still glued to the now empty pistol. He hears something like words close to his ear but he cannot make them out, he cannot stop staring at Enjolras,

_René. You’re hurt. Your father will have my head if I ignore such a thing._

_I’m not, I swear. Come on. We can’t stop the game in the middle! Someone has to win._

Javert doesn’t want to play anymore.

Oh, but he _has_ to, if he is to obey his duty. His code. Everything he’s ever stood for.

“Just a scrape,” he whispers again.

He feels someone shake his shoulder; he turns, seeing Valjean holding him by his coat and looking furious.

Yes, someone had grabbed him. That’s right.

“Can you not hear me?” Valjean asks.

Javert closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“Is that a no?” Valjean asks.

Javert doesn’t answer.

“What’s just a scrape, Javert?”

Still Javert cannot get the words out.

“What _happened_?” Valjean asks.

 “Your brig doesn’t hold prisoners very well Valjean,” Javert finally says, not answering the question. “And what do you…” he stumbles over his own words, and though Valjean doesn’t let go of him, the initial fury he saw in his eyes morphs into confusion, and something like pity. “What do you think….we’re in a battle Valjean. People get shot all the time. I’m no different, Rene is no different.”

Valjean looks at him as if to say _of course it is_ , but turns toward Feuilly, who answers instead.

“I was fighting Javert’s first mate,” Feuilly explains, Enjolras’ head still resting on his knee. “Javert aimed at me, but I moved out of the way and Rene accidentally stepped in the path of the bullet.”

An auburn haired, freckled pirate with a French accent Javert remembers from before appears, a bald pirate behind him and carrying a medical bag in his hands.

"I'm here, I'm here," Joly says, sliding to his knees on the wet deck. "Ah Rene my friend what did I say about gathering more scars? You leave my sight for an hour and now not only have you got two sword cuts but there's a bullet? I'm going to have to follow at your heels from now on."

Enjolras releases a breath that's half a laugh and half a gasp of pain.

“It hurts worse than it…should…” Enjolras says through gritted teeth.

“By the grace of whatever god exists you’ve only been grazed by a bullet before,” Joly says. “Bullet wounds hurt, my friend. Stay still.”

“I mean to say I think it’s lodged,” Enjolras says.

“Feuilly could you lift him just slightly and check for an exit wound?” Joly asks, pulling a clean rag out of his bag so he can wipe away some of the surrounding blood from the sword wound further down Enjolras’ arm.

Feuilly does as asked, and Enjolras winces at the adjustment, but bears the pain without comment.

“No,” Feuilly says, the concern growing in his voice, but he keeps calm, hands steady as they hold Enjolras still. “I don’t see one.”

Joly grimaces slightly, pushing back some of Enjolras’ sweaty hair from his face, his touch gentle and patient. Behind Bossuet, Grantaire rushes up, the word E _njolras_ dying on his lips with a muffled cry as Bossuet turns around, carefully grasping his shoulders in comfort and keeping him back, whispering words Javert cannot hear into his ear.

“I need to take a look at it here before I can move you,” Joly says, but the battle still clashes around them, and at one look from Joly, Valjean nods, understanding something Javert does not.

 “Captain down!” Javert hears Valjean shout, raw emotion strangling the calm tone he attempts. “Stand down where you can!”

Javert hears footsteps behind him, footsteps he recognizes as sure as he knows his own, and Michel appears beside him, color receding from his face as his eyes dart between Javert still holding the gun and his son on the deck, blood staining the wood.

More pirates gather behind them, summoned by Valjean’s shout.

“Halt!” Michel calls to the men, tears filling his voice, and as the order spreads a silence falls over the ships, pierced by the odd clang of swords or one more canon shot against the backdrop of the coming quiet, and after a moment both navy and the East India men sheath their weapons in tandem with the pirates, looking bewildered. Soon the only noise is the creaking of ship and the wind in the sails, a heaviness settling in. Only one sound breaks into the eerie atmosphere, preceded by hurried footsteps coming over from the _Liberte_.

A scream like Javert’s never heard comes from Astra Enjolras’ mouth and shoots into the air, flying high before morphing into open, broken sobs, crashing like shattered glass onto the deck. Javert looks over in the direction of the sound, still shocked by such vivid emotion from a woman who kept everything under lock and key, watching Fantine take Astra in her arms, holding her tight against her chest. Cosette stands nearby, one hand on her mother’s back, a fresh cut on her arm. Eponine and Marius come up behind her, the latter clapping hand over his mouth.

“Rene my god,” Michel says, stepping forward as Javert had, but Prouvaire steps in front, his dark purple coat covered in streaks of gunpowder.

“Joly needs room, Captain Enjolras,” Prouvaire says, not unkind. “Please stay back.”

More footsteps. Javert sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac running toward them, and as soon as the latter’s eyes land on the gun in Javert’s hand, his angry words rush toward Javert with such fire that he feels heat on his face.

“You _shot_ him!” Courfeyrac shouts. “You absolute _bastard_ , I swear to god I’ll knock you flat and then keep going.”

Courfeyrac tries swinging at him, but to Javert’s shock he’s stopped by the last person he suspected.

Combeferre.

"Auden Auden," Combeferre says, his voice calm, and it's all he can do to keep Courfeyrac back from Javert, his arms wrapped around his friend's chest. But when Javert looks over, he sees the tears in Combeferre's eyes. "Let Joly do his job, all right? That's what Rene needs right now.”

Courfeyrac fights him for a few more seconds before going limp in Combeferre’s arms, reaching out for one of his hands and grasping it tight.

“Nicholas, what…” Michel asks, looking lost. “You…”

“I wasn’t trying to shoot him,” Javert says, but it tastes like a lie, because earlier, he’d had every intention of killing Enjolras. Of killing Michel’s son.

And yet as regret fills him up, it doesn’t change the fact that the law still may very well take Rene’s life if something else on this day doesn’t do it first. He’d been preventing the inevitable, he’d been merciful, he’d obeyed necessity, morality, and the law.

And yet the pain on Michel’s face now makes Javert hate himself more, caught between two masters, caught between loyalty and duty, caught between his heart and his head, fear of the consequences of disobedience to any of these choking the life out of him as Baron Travers’ threat rings in his mind.

“Let go of the gun Javert,” Valjean says, firm, letting go of Javert’s coat and moving his grip to Javert’s wrist. Javert feels a pair of eyes on him, looking across the deck where Fantine still holds Astra, seeing his mother standing there, a protective hand laying on Astra’s back.

Javert obeys, letting Valjean slip the gun from his hands, finally letting go of him. Javert stares ahead, only snapping to when he hears Joly’s voice again. He’s slipped Enjolras’ coat off, and now removes the shirt so he can get at the wound properly, speaking softly to Bossuet as he sorts out his needed tools. Even in the haze of pain Enjolras looks uncomfortable at how vulnerable he is, exposed to such a large group of people. Javert hears Michel gasp softly, and his eyes follow his mentor’s, trailing over the handful of sword scars Enjolras bears across his abdomen and arms, some faded and some new, the battle they fight written across his skin. Javert reaches for his back absentmindedly, feeling for the scars he knows rest there, scars he’d received years ago but cannot forget.

“Give him room to breathe please,” Joly says. “Step back a bit.” He looks over at Combeferre, who still holds Courfeyrac. “Frantz if you could come here a moment, please, I could use your help.”

Combeferre nods, squeezing Courfeyrac’s hand before handing him over to Bahorel, who puts a secure arm around his friend’s shoulder while glaring daggers at Javert.

“If your mother weren’t standing here I’d kill you myself,” Bahorel says, cold and matter of fact. “So be grateful.”

Javert feels words climbing up his throat but they stick and he cannot respond, eyes drawn back to the scene in front of him.

“Feuilly, hold him like you are now, just keep his shoulders secure,” Joly says, cleaning the area around the wound. “Combeferre just…it might sound silly, but hold his hand. I need to probe the wound and see if I can extract the bullet.”

“It’s not silly,” Combeferre says, taking Enjolras’ uninjured hand in his own, drawing his friend’s gaze.

“Are you…all right?” Enjolras asks, words stilted.

“Yes I’m all right,” Combeferre says, retaining a composure upon which Javert marvels, but Javert sees the love in his touch as he runs a finger across Enjolras’ cheek. “Small flesh wounds, that’s all.”

“Bossuet the rum if you would,” Joly says, gesturing at the bald pirate beside him. “Tilt his head up so he doesn’t choke on it.”

“Not watered down this time I’m afraid,” Bossuet jokes, drawing a soft, pained chuckle from Enjolras, who drinks a large gulp without protest, swallowing the bitter liquor down.

“All right my friend,” Joly says. “I’m going to probe the wound now, to see if I can feel the bullet. I’m sorry, it will hurt.”

Enjolras nods, and they all watch as Joly puts two fingers inside the wound. Enjolras jerks involuntarily, biting his lip as Feuilly and Combeferre keep him still.

“I feel it, I can extract it I believe,” Joly says, hurried but still keeping calm. “Bossuet the bullet extractor please, and another swig of rum, he’s going to need it.”

Enjolras is visibly shaking now from the pain, coughing as two more swigs of rum go down, and Joly gestures at Courfeyrac.

“Auden, I need your assistance as well, to hold his other arm down, can you do that?”

Courfeyrac nods, and Bahorel releases him. He goes over to Enjolras putting a small kiss on his hair before taking his wrist, careful with his cut hand.

“All right,” Joly says. “The three of you hold him still until this is through, I don’t want to cause any further damage.” He turns his gaze to Enjolras, and even for all the people standing around, his voice keeps a reassuring tone so strong it might have only been the two of them. “I’m going to put this piece of cloth in your mouth for a moment so you don’t bite down on your tongue, is that all right? Hold tight, and if you need to cry out don’t feel ashamed of it, do you hear me?”

Enjolras nods, breathing in deep as Joly places the cloth inside before picking up the bullet extractor. Enjolras shouts in pain almost immediately and it echoes through the air even if it’s muffled from the cloth, the silence around them crushing as that single sound slams into it. Michel grasps Javert’s coat sleeve, tears brimming in his eyes.

Javert feels nauseated.

“It’s out, it’s out,” Joly says, breathing a sigh of relief. “I don’t think it splintered. I’m afraid I need to let it bleed a bit, make sure it gets any pieces of dirty cloth out of the wound before I can clean and bandage it.”

“Joly,” Enjolras says, hoarse. “My arm…will….am I going to lose it?”

“I don’t know,” Joly says, blinking back tears of his own. “I have hope, but we must see how things progress, make sure no infection spreads. I…I will do my best my friend. But right now we need to get you to your cabin.”

Enjolras nods again, looking frighteningly pale. Michel lets go of Javert’s coat sleeve, stepping forward. He loosens his shoulder belt, pulling his cutlass off and offering it out toward Valjean with a steady hand. And then, the foundation of Javert’s world trembles violently beneath him as Michel Enjolras bends down on one knee before Jean Valjean.

Before a convict.

Before a _pirate_.

"I am surrendering to you, Captain Valjean," Michel says. "If you wish to discuss terms, I am amenable. I only ask that if anyone should have to pay for what has happened today, that it fall upon my head, and not the heads of my men."

"We do not usually take prisoners once a battle has ended," Valjean replies. "Nor do we kill crews or captains who have surrendered to us. It is not our way, nor will it ever be. You may keep your sword, Commodore Enjolras, please stand up,” Valjean continues putting out a hand to help him up from the deck.

"Please," Michel answers, voice cut through with loss, and it hurts Javert to watch him beg not just any pirate, but _Valjean_. "This is the way I have been taught to do things.”

“Come now, commodore,” Valjean protests, that kindness in his voice that drives Javert mad as he pushes the sword back toward its owner. “It’s an agreement more than it is a surrender. I accept, there is no need for this ceremony.”

“There is. There is for all the things that I have…” Michel doesn’t finish the sentence, pushing the sheath back again. “Take it.”

Valjean releases a quick sigh, looking uncomfortable, but he takes the sword from Michel's hand.

“Please stand up Commodore Enjolras,” Valjean entreats, looking back at Fantine for help. She shakes her head, as confused as the rest. But finally Michel stands up, adjusting his hat, which somehow survived the battle.

"We should discuss terms," Michel says.

Valjean nods, listening.

“I could take Rene,” Michel says, but from the look in Valjean’s expression Javert knows that’s not a possibility. “The doctors in Kingston…”

“Our own Joly is French navy trained,” Valjean says, cutting him off. “There is no one better. I will not give Rene or Frantz to you.”

Michel looks back at Enjolras laying on the deck, swiping at his eyes, all his usual composure lost. Javert watches Valjean soften, empathy in his eyes.

“You may take Javert,” Valjean says. “And go back to Kingston. We will not pursue you and you will not pursue us.”

“All right,” Michel says, voice cracking, and he clears his throat, vulnerability flooding in. “You will take care of him?”

“Yes,” Valjean says, his voice almost warm. “You may count on that, commodore.”

A few seconds pass before Michel responds, closing his eyes and swallowing.

“We’ll need some time to gather our dead and wounded,” Michel says. “I’m afraid they’re scattered over all of the ships.”

“Take the time you need,” Valjean says. “Just keep your men in line, I won’t have them scuffling with mine.”

“My first mate will see they do not,” Michel says. “I shall insist upon it.”

 “Courfeyrac must speak for Rene’s part in this, for now, as quartermaster,” Valjean says. “Auden, do you agree?”

Courfeyrac glares at Javert from his place next to Enjolras, but nods at Valjean nevertheless. In his shock at everything happening in the past few minutes, Javert does not quite hear Michel speaking to him.

“Nicholas,” Michel says a second time, and still Javert does not turn until Michel tugs on his sleeve.

“Yes?” Javert says.

“I need you to say you agree to the terms,” Michel says.

Michel looks desperate when Javert meets his eyes, and although every part of him screams against it, voices ringing in his head and mixing together in a screeching chorus: _they’re pirates, the law, Admiral Adams, pirates pirates pirates, wrong…mother. Frantz. Valjean. Rene._

_Michel._

“I agree,” Javert says, voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

At his words Michel steps closer to Valjean, putting his hand out for the other man to shake.

He wants to shake hands with a _pirate_.

He’s surrendering to a _pirate_.

Valjean hesitates a moment before accepting, and the two men shake hands, holding the gesture for perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Michel lets go, walking toward Astra now. She looks at him as he approaches, Fantine’s arm still around her waist.

“We must go my dear,” Michel says, and Javert thinks he hasn’t heard Michel call her that in years. “Back to Kingston.”

“I am not leaving Rene,” Astra says, eyes red from crying. “Ever again. I’m not coming with you.”

“Astra,” Michel insists, looking as though someone slapped him in the face. “You cannot stay here.”

“You heard her, commodore,” Fantine says. “I believe she made herself very clear.”

“Astra,” Michel tries again. “How can I leave you behind? I can’t just…”

“She’ll be safe with us,” Fantine interrupts, voice still hard but softening a fraction. “You needn’t worry on that front.”

"If you care about me at all you will go and you will take Javert with you," Astra says, and Javert feels her eyes on him, unleashing a tide of resentment. He remembers her giving him the wooden sword to him years ago, and how he broke the offering in half, tossing it to the ocean. "I do not want to see either of you right now, Michel. I told you how this would go, I told you they would get hurt and you didn't _listen_."

"Astra I'm _sorry_ ," Michel says, and Javert sees the tears falling freely from his eyes now, and the fact that he’s crying at all, much less in front of a crowd or pirates, tells Javert just how far he’s fallen. “I love you, I love Rene and Frantz, please just…I’m _trying_.”

"I know you are,” Astra says, another sob cutting into her words. “But I am not ready to thank you for ending it when I cannot yet forgive you for starting it in the first place. Be better like I know you can, Michel.” Her eyes land on Javert, and they narrow, anger bursting within them, and there’s no tinge of softness as there was when she looked at Michel. "Are you pleased with yourself, Javert?" she asks. "Do you feel _righteous_ knowing Rene is bleeding and hurting because of you? Don't tell me it's a battle. Do not tell me it happens. You followed them here. You started this." She lowers her voice, and Javert’s never heard such rage from her. “I know what you did, Javert. I saw you.”

Javert cannot make himself answer, but he hears Astra’s words from a few weeks ago ringing in his head as Michel looks at him in question.

_I watched you make each other laugh and watched you teach him how to handle a sword. But then you tossed that away, and I watched you hurt him. So let me be very clear; when the two of you clash, and I feel that is inevitable now, if you harm him, I can promise that you will answer to me for it._

 Astra's words break off, and Fantine hugs her close again, and not for the first time, Javert wonders at some shared past between them.

Michel's eyes move from Astra and land on the woman Javert recognizes as Chantal; it's been years and he'd only seen her from afar, but she looks strikingly like her son. Michel eyes widen as he registers who he's looking at.

"Chantal," he says, voice chipped and scratched and faded.

"Michel," she says, unimpressed, and Javert watches Michel's eyes run over old lash scars on her wrists, curled around and leaving lighter patches on her skin. Michel puts a hand in his pocket no doubt feeling for the watch Arthur gave him.

"I..." Michel tries, obviously unsure what to say. "I'm glad Frantz found you"

"So am I," Chantal says, still unsmiling, but there’s a curiosity in her eyes. "It's what Arthur would have wished, I imagine."

"Yes," Michel says, looking away now. "You’re right."

Finally Michel's eyes land on Tiena, and Javert notices him stiffen almost as if he fears her. She gazes back at him, unflinching.

"Perhaps you might talk some sense back into my son, Commodore Enjolras," she says, still holding his gaze. "I fear he listens to no one else. I suspect he would not have initiated the surrender as you did. No matter the cost."

Tiena meets Javert’s eyes at that, and he feels her judgement seeping down into his bones.

He doesn’t _care._

_Oh_ , says the voice. _But don’t you?_

Michel doesn't answer, looking back at Javert for a moment and then at Tiena before stepping away from the group of women. Fantine leads Astra away, Michel staring after them but not following. Javert watches him walk over toward Rene instead, but before he can reach him Combeferre steps in his path, some of Enjolras’ blood streaking his coat from helping Joly.

“Frantz please,” Michel says. “Let me see him. Just for a moment.”

“I cannot,” Combeferre says, and though sorrow pervades his eyes, his voice keeps firm. “He is injured, and we’ve got to take care of him. Seeing you right now will not help.”

“Frantz,” Michel pleads.

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre says, genuine, and he reaches out toward Michel then pulls back just before his fingers brush Michel’s coat, keeping to his position. “But it’s what’s best for him right now. That remains my first priority, as always. He would do no less for me.”

Michel just keeps looking at him, and though Combeferre doesn’t budge, he speaks again, gentler, but only just.

“It was the right thing, surrendering,” he says. “It is a start.”

He walks away after that, not allowing any further words from Michel, who steps away and back to Javert’s side, the sounds of their first mates calling orders to the men sounding distant in Javert’s ears. He watches as Valjean walks over to Enjolras, and though Enjolras protests, insisting he can walk, Joly’s arguments quiet him. Valjean picks Enjolras up from the deck, carrying him over his shoulder, careful with his wounds. Javert cannot help but recall the day on the beach when he lifted nine-year-old Rene from the sand.

_I’d rather die side by side with my friends in a noose than by the sword of a man who used to carry me home from the beach. That’s love, Javert. This isn’t._

“With me, Nicholas,” Michel murmurs, and Javert’s certain he’s never sounded so defeated. “I think the _Navigator_ may need to tow the _Chase_ behind us, and we’ll need to tend to your wounds. So you’ll sail with me. I think we need to talk.”

Something about Michel's words shock Javert out of his stupor, and he tears his eyes away from Valjean carrying Enjolras back to the _Liberte_.

"Are we simply releasing them?" Javert asks, and Michel looks at him, perplexed.

"I surrendered," Michel says. "So I believe it is they who are releasing us. You agreed to the terms."

“I was…” Javert struggles with the next words. “I was _distracted_ by what was happening with Rene.”

“I understand you are not yourself,” Michel says. “But this is final. Rene has been shot, and continuing the battle is not good for him. He needs tending to.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot him,” Javert says again.

“I know,” Michel says, but there’s a touch of something else in his voice, and Javert senses that Michel suspects something about the earlier swordfight. “But it doesn’t change the fact that he is hurt. That he could lose his arm if they’re not careful. I will not continue on with that at stake.”

"Michel," Javert protests, even as the gleam in Michel's eyes tells him he shouldn't. "They are _pirates_.”

"And good men," Michel says, short, and Javert thinks he's never looked more like Rene than he does right now. His eyes travel upward to a scar just above Michel's eyebrow, still bleeding.

They stare at one another, Michel looking surprised at his own words but holding firm in his decision, and Javert hears that strange buzzing noise in his head again.

"Are you questioning the strategy?” Michel asks, irritation clear in his tone, one of the rare times Javert's heard it directed toward him. Here, in this moment, they are not equals sailing under two banners for a shared purpose, and Michel makes rare use of his seniority and his past as Javert's commanding officer.

"I..." Javert says. "No sir."

"Let's go then," Michel says. "I believe both of our surgeons will have their work cut out for them, so I will help you with your wounds."

"I can take care of them myself," Javert says, hearing the petulance in his own voice, and when he meets Michel's eyes again, he sees the anger within them.

"Kindly do not argue with me, Nicholas. I am in no temper, and you need not get an infection in your stubbornness. And as I said, we have some things to discuss."

Finally, Javert falls silent.

* * *

 

Astra’s entire world is the captain’s cabin of the _Liberte_.

She fit herself into the bed with Enjolras, resting against the small headboard with her legs crossed, her son’s head resting in her lap as he lays atop the covers.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable Madam Enjolras?” Joly asks, eyes still focused on cleaning he rest of Enjolras’ wound. “I know these beds take some getting used to, given they well. Hang from the ceiling. Like a hammock, but better.”

“I’m all right,” she says, smiling at him. “And you may call me Astra, if you’re comfortable with it.”

“Perfectly,” Joly says, looking up from his work and returning the smile. “I’m very pleased to finally meet you.”

“And I you,” Astra replies. “I’m very pleased to meet my son’s friends, even under the circumstances.”

Astra’s eyes trail downward; Joly’s bandaged the sword injuries on Enjolras’ forearm and the gash on his hand, continuing his work on the bullet wound.

“Maman you should rest,” Enjolras protest, words drenched in exhaustion, using the old term from his very young days when Michel was teaching him French. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Shhh, Rene,” Astra says, brushing a hand down his cheek. “Of course I do.”

A faint smile plays at Enjolras’ lips for a moment, mixing in with the pain.

“What do you think, Joly?” he asks.

“No bullet splinters that I can see,” Joly says, cutting the bandage now. “Which is good news. The bleeding is slowing down and I’ve cleaned it to the best of my ability, but I admit I am concerned about infection as anyone would be, but if we can keep it minimal I believe we can save your arm. If it had been a few inches deeper it might be a different story, but luckily the angle prevented that. It…if things go well it will still take time for the arm to heal It may always be stiff under the best of circumstances. It will ache sometimes, not be quite as it was before. I am frankly relieved it wasn’t your primary sword arm.”

“So only time will tell, I imagine,” Enjolras says.

“I’m afraid so, my friend,” Joly says, making work of putting the bandage on, and Enjolras winces. “But I think the prognosis is better than my usual with bullet wounds. If you do as I say, of course.”

“I would never deny you,” Enjolras says.

“Ah my friend you are a frightful liar,” Joly says, grinning, and Astra sees the exhaustion in his eyes. “But now I have your mother here to enlist in my services, so I’m optimistic.”

“Turning against me already I see,” Enjolras says, having trouble keeping his eyes open under the power of the laudanum. He falls quiet a moment before growing even more serious. “Joly…how many did we lose today?”

“Enjolras…” Joly tries.

“Please just…I need to know,” Enjolras persists.

“Eight dead on the _Liberte_ ,” Joly says, apprehensive. “But I am not sure of the count from the _Misericorde_ , though I imagine it’s similar. Which all things considered, could have been worse. Ten more injured enough to see me, but those thankfully were largely cutlass wounds. Everyone with a few more scars today, I’m afraid. But it…it could have been worse, I think. We were lucky in a few ways.”

“May I have the list of names?”

“In the morning perhaps,” Joly says, firm now. “And no, I’m not going to give you the report on ship damages today, so don’t ask. Right now you need to rest.”

“And Auden and Frantz?” Enjolras asks.

“I suggested they keep to their work or they’d be in here fretting over you, which I’m sure there will be plenty of,” Joly says. “Courfeyrac has taken over your duties and Combeferre is at the wheel. I think it helps, getting lost in the work. But I’ll see to them and then I’m sure they’ll be in here after a little while.”

Enjolras nods, and then there’s a knock at the door. Bossuet enters, and Astra finds that even now, after everything, there’s a sort of enduring cheer in his eyes.

“Just coming in to bring the extra bottle of laudanum,” Bossuet says. “Doing all right, Enjolras?”

“Better in Joly’s hands,” Enjolras says. “Are you sure we can spare the laudanum?” Enjolras asks. “There are plenty others injured.”

“I’m certain,” Joly says, raising his eyebrows, and Astra almost laughs. “Well I’ll leave you to it Mada…Astra,” he continues, correcting himself. “I’m certain I’m leaving him in good hands. Just send someone for me should you need anything.”

“I will,” Astra says, reaching out and pressing Joly’s hand, seeing the light in his dark green eyes shine brighter. “You are very good at what you do, you know.”

“Thank you,” Joly says, shooting one more concerned glance at Enjolras. “I do try my best.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bossuet,” Astra says, looking over at the other young man. “I’m told there’s a story I should hear one day about your nickname.”

“An excellent joke devised by our friend Grantaire,” Bossuet says, an affectionate twinkle in his eyes. “We’ll have to tell you how we met, when there’s a chance.”

“I look forward to it,” Astra says.

“Rest, Enjolras,” Joly says once more before he and Bossuet make their way out, and just before they do Astra sees Joly take Bossuet’s hand, interlacing their fingers, and she tilts her head, curious.

 “How did Joly end up a pirate?” she asks as they exit.

“He was in the French navy as a surgeon,” Enjolras replies. “But one of the captains was cruel to him, wouldn’t let him treat sailors unless he approved it, and one night one of the crewmen grazed Bossuet, who worked in the tavern they were in, with a bullet. Joly got in trouble for treating him, received lashes. Long story short, Bossuet helped him run away, and they’ve been a pair ever since. Then they met Grantaire, then us.”

“Are Joly and Bossuet…” Astra asks, unsure. Today is not the time to talk about her past, but her curiosity gets the better of her.

“Romantically involved?” Enjolras finishes for her, smiling slightly. “Yes.”

“Is that usual among pirates?” Astra asks. “It’s accepted? I assumed people of different races would not be denied just given what I’ve learned but I hadn’t…” she trails off, Enjolras picking up where she left off.

“It’s largely accepted yes,” Enjolras answers, a question in his eyes that he doesn’t have the energy to ask. “There are a few outliers of course, but generally yes. There is something called _matelotage_ that we have, though I will have to explain it when I am less hazy, but it is a bit like marriage, but for two men. I have not yet heard of it applied to women, though I should hope that might be remedied. Although it is not just Joly and Bossuet, you see. There is a woman also. Musichetta.”

“Three of them?” Astra says, wonder in her voice. “Well.”

“You are not scandalized?” Enjolras asks.

“People are far too interested in what people do and don’t do in the privacy of their own bedrooms, I fear,” Astra says. “Loving who you love should not be judged upon, I should think. Radical though the idea may be.”

“You have been here an hour and you fit in,” Enjolras says, and then his voice goes lower, reaching a whisper. “I am glad you are here.”

“So am I, my darling,” Astra says pushing a strand of her loose blonde hair behind her ear as it brushes against her son’s cheek. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

“It…” Enjolras says. “I will be all right.”

At this Astra leans down, resting her forehead against her son’s, and despite herself, she feels a few more tears leak out.

“Don’t cry,” Enjolras whispers, and the love in his words reminds her of the agony of missing him even as he’s here with her. “I’ll be all right.”

“I saw him, Rene,” Astra says, sitting up again. “I saw Javert try to kill you.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, understanding. “I was afraid you had.”

“Do you…do you want to talk about it?” Astra asks.

“I’m not sure I can, just now,” Enjolras admits. “It is too…fresh. He…he thought he was saving me. Saving father. He is not…right in the mind, I think.” Enjolras pauses, and she feels his pulse quicken beneath her fingers. “And then father surrendered and I…I told him to come to Nassau. And show me who he really was, but…”

“You need to sleep Rene,” Astra says, gently cutting him off. “You are badly wounded and your mind and body both need the rest. We will have plenty of time to talk about all of this.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and then opens them again, looking back up at her.

“All right,” he agrees. “Are you sure you want to…”

“Stay?” she asks. “Yes, I’m quite certain. You sleep, and I’ll keep Frantz and Auden company when they return.” She laughs quietly to herself, and Enjolras looks up at her, a quizzical expression on his face. “I was just thinking of how stubborn you always were when ill as a boy,” she continues. “Apparently that has not changed in twelve years.”

Enjolras laughs in response, and Astra massages his scalp with her fingers, coaxing him into sleep.

“I’m proud of you, Rene,” she says as his eyes flutter closed. “I may not understand all of it yet, but I am proud even still.”

A faint smile plays at Enjolras’ lips, and after a few minutes his breathing evens out and he falls asleep, head still resting in her lap.

And despite all the questions on the horizon and all the uncertainty, despite her worry over his wounds, despite everything, for the first time in years, a sense of happiness takes root in Astra’s chest.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to ariadneslostthread, who helped me out a bit with the surrendering practices of naval captains! Which I'm assuming would also pretty similarly apply to East India captains.


	26. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel discovers the truth about what happened when Javert and Enjolras crossed swords. When they arrive in Kingston, both men must confront the consequences of Michel's surrender, and for the first time in years, Michel stands up to his father in law, casting off the life he knew. Javert watches, wondering what's happened to the man he knew, and one night, Michel makes a choice that tilts Javert's world to the side.
> 
> Meanwhile, the crews of the Misericorde and the Liberte return to Nassau, finding hope and solace in each other and the island itself. Combeferre shares some of his disquiet with his mother, processing everything that's happened. He returns to his oldest friend's sickbed, sharing a quiet moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very Michel and Javert heavy, but I promise there will be lots of detailing of the goings on in Nassau, the Amis, Valjean, Fantine, Cosette, and co, plus the pirate mom squad in the following chapters, so don't worry! 
> 
> As far as historical notes go, I realized despite knowing the Haitian part of Hispaniola was called Saint-Domingue during this period, I have been calling it Haiti out of reflex, so I corrected that here. So, Saint-Domingue is Haiti, just for clarification.
> 
> Chantal uses some Haitian Creole here, cheri ti gascon, which as far as Google Translate says, should mean "my darling boy" but I am no expert. 
> 
> I make reference to inhabitants in Nassau Town a little later on. There was a bit of Nassau that still had a smattering of non-pirate inhabitants in it, at the time, so that's what I'm talking about there. Also just for clarification, Nassau is a part of New Providence Island, which is part of the Bahamas. Lots of names to keep up with!

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 10**

**Aboard the Navigator.**

Pieces of Michel’s world fall out from beneath him with every step he takes, and yet somehow the earth spins on.

Somehow he has to walk and talk and give orders and make sense of Javert’s strange behavior. Javert, who he suddenly cannot trust to share this burden.

Rene is gone. Frantz is gone. Astra is gone.

He surrendered.

To a _pirate_.

To _Valjean_.

And now he must go to Kingston and admit all of it to his father in law, to Admiral Adams, to the Royal Navy, and to the Company.

Then, he suspects, the remaining pieces of the life he knew will finish their work of crumbling beneath him.

He’d been right about the _Chase_.

They opt to tow it behind them given the extent of the damage, and Michel watches Javert’s eyes rove over it with a distinct melancholy, the physical manifestation of everything he worked for possibly ruined forever.

“Admiral Adams is going to be furious,” Javert mutters, speaking aloud to himself more than to Michel. “We may have to replace her.”

“Always a risk,” Michel says, leading Javert toward the surgeon’s quarters on the _Navigator_ , as the _Chase’s_ own was overwhelmed already. “Admiral Adams knew where he was sending us, he has no right to be angry about ship damage.”

_He’ll be too busy being angry over a great deal of other things_ , Michel thinks privately. He looks behind him just before leading Javert below, watching the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ make sail, feeling very much as though the ships rip part of this heart away with them, carrying not only Frantz and Rene off once again, but Astra too.

Javert doesn’t answer but follows him down, finding the surgeon busy, but he insists on tending to Javert’s leg wound himself.

“Deep,” the surgeon says upon looking at the cut. “But a swipe across as opposed to a stab through, which is better on the whole in this case.”

He cleans, packs, and bandages Javert’s leg, giving Michel instructions for the wound on Javert’s back so he might continue caring for the other injured men.

“Let’s go to my cabin,” Michel says. “I can tend to you there, and we’ll have some privacy.”

“Sir,” Javert protests.

_Sir_ , Michel notices, and not the now common use of his first name. Guilt mars Javert’s features, and Michel remembers Astra words.

_I know what you did, Javert. I saw you._

He’d seen the cut on Rene’s hand like he’d pushed away a blade, saw the tiniest dribble of blood on his throat.

_Oh_ but he doesn’t _want_ to give this credence.

“No arguments,” Michel says. “You cannot tend to a wound on your back, Nicholas. Besides, I’m certain you’d do the same for me.”

Javert falls silent at this and follows Michel to his cabin, his gait slower from his thigh wound. They’re scarcely alone a minute before there’s an urgent knock at the door and Anderson opens it, looking nervous.

“I have a bit of the report sirs,” he says, remaining in the doorway. “Should I give it now, or…”

“Go ahead, Anderson,” Michel says, nodding.

“I’m afraid we have ten men dead from the _Chase_ ,” he says, wincing. “Ten more badly injured, though likely to pull through. Everyone a bit scraped up. Rollins says there are eight dead on the _Navigator_ ,” he says, referencing Michel’s first mate. “Eleven injured enough to see the surgeon, but again, they’ll survive. But the _Chase_ is ready to be towed, and we should be on our way here in a few minutes, if the wind cooperates. Should I send Rollins to you, sir?” he asks Michel.

“No, that’s all right, just ask him to stand in for me while I tend to Captain Javert if you would,” Michel says. Anderson hesitates in the doorway, something else on the tip of his tongue. “Something the matter Anderson?” Michel asks, growing impatient.

“Yes,” Anderson says, looking more anxious now. “May I be frank, sir?”

“Go ahead,” Michel says, softening his tone to ease the other man’s clearly frayed nerves.

“It’s the men, I’m afraid,” Anderson explains. “There was a bit of a….scuffle between some of ours and some of yours.”

“Over what?” Michel asks.

“Over…over the surrender, Commodore Enjolras,” Anderson says, wincing. “Some of the men on the _Chase_ don’t like the idea of surrendering to pirates, and some of the men on the _Navigator_ were trying to defend you.”

“Tell the officers on both ships to keep control over it,” Michel says. “And if they’re caught again my men at least will find themselves on double duty. That lack of discipline will not be tolerated, especially not now when we must share the space of the _Navigator_ because of the damage to the _Chase_.”

“Yes sir,” Anderson says. “Captain, anything I should tell the men?” he asks Javert.

“That their rations will be cut if I so much as catch a word of the fighting,” Javert says, words sharp. “And if there’s a fist thrown, the lash. Without exception. It is not their place to argue with either my or Commodore Enjolras’ orders, or to express an opinion on them.”

“Yes sir,” Anderson nods. He studies Javert for a moment, his next words coming out in a rush. “I’m glad you’re all right sir, and thank you for looking out for me earlier, if I may say, and,” he looks up at Michel now, embarrassed and unsure, but pushing forward. “I know the matter’s complex but I…I’m sorry about your son, Commodore Enjolras.”

He releases a breath, and Michel feels sorry for him, trying to smile even as the world around him keeps shifting.

“Thank you for your concern, Anderson,” Michel says. “You should get yourself seen to.”

“Yes have one of the men see to you,” Javert says, and not for the first time, Anderson looks desperate for his captain’s approval. “You’re a bit scratched up.”

Anderson nods, looking at them both again before giving them a farewell and dashing out the door in a fair departure from his usual dignity. Silence sits with Michel and Javert for a long moment, all the things unsaid resting thick between them.

“Coat and shirt off, I’m afraid,” Michel says. “I need to get to that wound before it gets infected.”

Javert does as asked without protest this time, no doubt heavy with the news of their losses and Michel’s earlier sternness. He slides the coat off, the fabric cut through from the cutlass, and the strangeness of cleaning Javert up from a swordfight with Rene doesn’t go past Michel. Javert takes the shirt off more slowly, and the questions gathering in Michel’s mind halt when he sees the scars crisscrossing Javert’s skin.

“Nicholas,” he says, more upset by them than he bargained for. “What are these?”

“What?” Javert asks, confused.

“These scars,” Michel clarifies, putting a hand upon them, and Javert flinches involuntarily. “I don’t recall any sort of wound since I’ve known you that would cause these.”

“Oh,” Javert says. “They’re old ones.”

“Where did you get them?” Michel presses.

“When I was a cabin boy on my first East India ship,” Javert says, unconcerned. “I made an error with one of the knots, and I received lashes for it. Ten, I think.”

“How old were you?” Michel asks.

“Thirteen perhaps,” Javert says, a shrug in his voice. “The captain perhaps suspected I was Romani, so I imagine he might have been harsher than normal. It doesn’t matter, Michel.”

“It _does_ matter,” Michel says, hearing the anger in his own voice. “It matters that an East India captain would abuse a young boy like that, it…” Michel’s voice dies in his throat and all he can see is Rene bleeding on the deck and shouting in pain; it mixes with images of a young Javert biting his lip against the lash from a cruel captain, mixes with Rene’s bleeding nose from his grandfather’s punch and the agony in Frantz’s eyes when Michel said he must learn his place that night when everything fell apart.

What has he _done_? What has he _allowed_? What has he been a part of?

“Michel,” Javert says, and he sounds far gentler than Michel expected. “I’m sorry I shot Rene.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Michel says, avoiding the questions he wants to ask for a few more minutes, making work now of the antiseptic the surgeon gave him, and applying it to Javert’s back, hearing the other man release a slight hiss.

“Apologies,” Michel says. “It may sting a bit.” His eyes trail across, landing on a growing bruise near Javert’s ribs, the skin rapidly purpling. “What’s that?”

“Rene kicked me,” Javert says, avoiding Michel’s eyes.

“Oh,” Michel says, remembering the image of Rene standing over Javert, cutlass raised, fury and heartbreak resting in his eyes. “I…” Michel tries. “I suppose I should have thought it inevitable your swords would cross. But I fear I cannot quite chase away that image of the two of you that first night, when you were playing. I don’t think I’d ever truly seen you smile until then, even if you’d been on my ship a few weeks.”

Javert doesn’t answer, clearly still annoyed with him for their earlier argument as they left the _Liberte_ , and hiding something beneath his tense posture. Michel finishes cleaning the wound, making quick work of wrapping the bandage around, tying it off and watching some of the blood seep through the white. Javert slides his shirt back on, finally speaking again.

“I could help you with that cut above your eyebrow,” Javert says. “If you like.”

Given his earlier arguments Michel cannot protest. He sits down in the chair opposite, and Javert leans over from his own, wiping the blood away.

“Rene has a scar over his eyebrow,” Michel says, hoping he might find some natural way to ask a most unnatural question. “Do you know where he got it?”

Javert looks at him, a glint in his eyes that’s very nearly a challenge.

“From me,” Javert says without preamble, the cold in his voice unnerving Michel. “The night he ran away. I struck him in the chaos of the escape. He wouldn’t stop fighting.”

Michel looks at him again, seeing that challenge resting there alongside a crushing, obvious guilt.

Something, he realizes, isn’t quite right.

“You never told me.”

“Michel,” Javert says, voice rife with something unstable, explosive, and dangerous. “I think you have something you’d like to ask me, and I’d prefer to cut to the chase.”

Michel starts. Javert’s never spoken like this to him before. He breathes in, holding eye contact as Javert pulls back from cleaning the cut on his eyebrow.

“Nicholas,” Michel asks, feeling his hands start shaking. “Did you try and kill Rene?”

“Yes,” Javert says, keeping his gaze, but the cracked look in his eyes sends a swift punch to Michel’s chest.

“You _did_ shoot him on purpose?” Michel says, but that makes little sense; Javert looked positively undone when Michel approached, staring at Rene, the gun still in his hand. “You lied to me.”

“No I didn’t,” Javert says, swiping his hand through the air. “When we crossed swords.”

Michel stands up abruptly, knocking his chair to the floor with a clatter, hot, volcanic fury overcoming every inch of him and suppressing the sense that something is _off_ in Javert’s mind.

“That’s why the cut on his hand,” Michel says, his voice rising. “ _That’s_ why I saw the small dribble of blood on his throat. That’s why Astra said what she did to you.”

“Yes,” Javert says, not withering, but Michel gets the sense that Javert wants him to shout, wants to be told he was wrong, but Michel is too angry to make sense of the notion.

Michel smacks his hand on his desk. “You tried to kill my _son_ ,” he says, wrath dripping off his voice like wax from a burning candle. “You tried to slit _my child’s_ throat.”

Javert did this. Javert tried to kill Rene.

_Javert._

Javert says nothing, finally averting his eyes, but Michel cannot stop the words now.

“Were you just going to stand there and watch him die?” Michel shouts. “Watch him choke on his blood until he couldn’t breathe anymore?”

Javert doesn’t answer, still looking away, his hands grasping the arms of his chair until the blood rushes to his fingertips.

“Answer me _immediately_ ,” Michel says.

“No,” Javert says, eyes stuck on the floor, and he’s offering no excuses, no reasoning, but Michel’s not ready to wonder why. All he can understand is that his only true friend left in the world tried to kill his son.

“No what?” Michel asks, but Javert only looks away again, not going further.

“Oh my god,” Michel says, turning away and running a frantic, sweaty hand over his face. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe you would do this. And to think I was lecturing Rene about thinking of killing you when he was only doing it because you tried to kill him first. And he hid that from me, trying to protect you and me and our partnership, even now, after every wrong we have done him, Christ.”

Javert still says nothing, letting the shouts and the anger fall down upon his shoulders like a rainstorm, the harsh words soaking through his clothing.

“Are you _mute_?” Michel asks.

Still there’s no answer. Michel walks up to Javert, grasping his lapels and drawing the other man’s attention. Javert flinches, surprised, but his unfocused gaze grows more solid.

“He loved you,” Michel says, voice threaded through with anguish. “And you wanted to pay him back with death.”

They stare at each other, blue eyes boring into gray until words come pouring out of Javert’s mouth like an explosion of sharp, jagged pieces.

“I never asked him to love me!” Javert shouts the words landing and skidding across the floor with a high-pitched screech in Michel’s ears. “And I never asked you.”

The words punch into the silence around them, and for a minute, all Michel hears is his own breathing and the creaking of the ship, his hand tightening on Javert’s lapels, but his friend, the only anchor he had anymore, wasn’t quite present. Javert looks back at him, a defiant regret in his eyes.

Michel lets go of Javert’s shirt, feeling his hands trembling.

“Dammit Nicholas what the hell is the matter with you!” Michel says even as something niggles at the back of his brain when he looks at Javert, telling him there’s more to this Javert isn’t saying. “You say the word _love_ as if it’s disgusting to you.”

“What good has it ever done you, hmm?” Javert says, his words sounding like a reflex. “You, who surrendered to a _pirate_. To _Valjean_. It’s not what you taught me…it’s not…” Javert’s words splinter, and for the first time that Michel truly remembers, he hears something in Javert’s voice.

Tears.

Javert wipes at them with violence as if they burn his skin, pulling his hand away with widened eyes, shocked at his own display.

Michel closes his eyes, quelling the heat inside his chest and looking back at Javert, an idea springing to life in his mind. Because for all the time he’s known him, Michel hasn’t known Javert to defy a direct order.

“Nicholas,” he says, calmer. “Tell me why you did this. Now. And spare me the argument that he’s a pirate, I know there’s more to it.”

Javert’s eyes widen further, but he speaks nevertheless.

“I was trying to save you,” he says, eyes going back to the floor, sounding much more like the twenty-one year old lad Michel met than a grown man. “I thought you might do something illegal, anything to save Rene and Frantz. And I thought if I removed Rene from the picture, I could save you. From yourself.”

“And you gave no care for what that would do to our relationship?” Michel asks, feeling an unbearable sadness creeping up from his stomach into his chest and spreading through his body.

“I didn’t want you to ruin your life,” Javert says, not looking up. “Or lose it. That mattered more than what you thought of me.”

The words, softly spoken as they are, hit Michel like the winds of a hurricane, always a sailor’s worst nightmare. He remembers such a storm striking Port Royal, remembers inviting Javert to stay with them until it passed, remembers the thrill in 8-year-old Rene’s voice at the prospect.

“And?” Michel asks, shaking the memory away.

“I wanted to save Rene the pain of the noose,” Javert says, choking back the tears, his voice going higher. “If things had gone ill for him, if we captured him, he was going to die, no matter whether you choose to accept it. I thought my own hand would be kinder than the rope.” He pauses, then speaks again, more resentment in his tone now. “He has grown rotten, Michel. You can’t save him.”

“You planned this,” Michel says, the truth dawning on him. “When Admiral Adams said what he did. You set out to do it.”

“Yes,” Javert says, not elaborating.

Michel goes over toward his desk, leaning upon for a moment as a wave of nausea smacks him. Javert thought this was _love_. Love wrapped up in a twisted, bloody form of mercy. Michel wonders at his own role in leading Javert to this point. Wonders what he missed along the way, wonders what he could have done to temper the self-loathing in Javert’s voice he always heard when the other man rarely mentioned his past. Even here, now, Michel cares deeply about the man sitting in front of him.

But _oh_ , he cannot let go of the anger.

He tried to kill _Rene_.

“Let me be clear about something,” Michel says, turning back around. “There is not ever a circumstance in which I would want Rene dead. _Ever_. The same goes for Frantz. I don’t care the cost to myself.”

_But mark my words Michel, I don’t care what the cost to myself, he will not say things like that in front of my son. Not while I live and breathe._

Arthur’s words from so long ago echo in his head, reflected within his own. But he has a long way to go before he could ever be the man Arthur was.

“I wanted to save you,” Javert says, mumbling, a far cry from his usual diction, his earlier defiance vanished. “And curse my own weak heart, but also Rene, from the worst thing imaginable. I’ve watched enough pirate executions to know their agony.”

“I suspect it may not be Rene or Frantz who needs saving,” Michel says. “I’m afraid it may be us.”

“That’s not what you said before!” Javert says, raising his voice again, and there’s a childlike quality to his tone. “For twenty years you have taught me that law and order and justice go hand in hand and now…now you’re surrendering to pirates. You’re telling me they’re good men.”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Michel says, but he doesn’t raise his voice this time. “Except that I faced Valjean, and he had no desire to injure me. Only to help. I saw how hard those men and women fought to protect Rene, Frantz, and Auden. I saw Chantal standing there, free because of them where I left her to rot in slavery after Arthur died.” Michel looks back at Javert, and just for a moment there’s a flicker of understanding, but it vanishes soon after, turned back to stone.

He sits back down in the chair, a mere foot away from Javert, the silence around them heavy with grief and electric with frustration.

“Nicholas,” Michel says, feeling tears spring to his own eyes now. “Do you regret it? Please tell me you regret it.”

“I don’t know,” Javert says, looking up at him, and for a brief second, Michel sees nothing but a lonely boy, fearful of losing one of the last people in the world he’s certain loves him. “Because nothing has changed. Rene is still in danger of the noose unless you break the law, or I do. Unless Admiral Adams decides to be forgiving. I don’t suspect he will.”

“You looked positively destroyed when Rene was shot,” Michel asks, confused. “You…”

“I did not like seeing him in that much pain,” Javert says, and there’s more of the familiar growl to his voice. “But it does not change the fact that there is nothing in the law that can save him. Not now.”

“How could you do this?” Michel asks, voice cut through, resting his head in his hands. “How could you do this to me?”

“I thought I was doing it for you,” Javert says, and he sounds more vulnerable than Michel’s heard him in their near twenty-years of knowing one another. “For him. Valjean said I wasn’t merciful. But he’s wrong.”

Michel looks up again, and a part of him wants to embrace Javert, to tell him he’s sorry for leading him down this path he thought so right and that now lays in nothing but wreckage before him, but he cannot, at least not now.

Rene Rene _Rene_. Astra. Frantz. Arthur.

Javert.

In some ways today, he’s lost all of them.

“If I ever taught you that something like that was mercy,” Michel says, swallowing back a sob. “Then I am heartily sorry, Nicholas.”

“Sir…” Javert tries.

There it is again. _Sir_.

Michel holds up a hand, and Javert halts.

“I need some time alone,” Michel says. “Kindly grant it to me.”

Javert nods, standing up and retrieving his coat, swiping at his eyes again, and with one more glance back at Michel, he’s gone.

Michel pulls his hair out of the tie, letting it fall down upon his shoulders and running his fingers through it, resting his face in his hands. In a blur of memories tinged with red, he sees the mast hit Arthur, sees an adult Rene kneeling on the ground, the pieces of his red coat laying around him like pools of blood, sees himself picking up Frantz the day Arthur died, holding the boy to him, sees the door to Astra’s bedchamber closed once again, taking no visitors, sees the slaves packed tightly in the hold of the _Navigator_ , the stench wafting up on board and oh _god_ what has he _done_?

_You’re not putting them first_ , he hears Astra say, _you’re putting your guilt first._

What does he _do_? What _can_ he do?

_I see that look in your eyes, the same one I’ve seen in Javert’s for years as we’ve circled each other, that question in the back of his mind, wondering if he was right. But he is not yet willing to give it credence. You are._

Valjean.

_All these years you have taught me that duty matters above all. That we must stay on the side of justice. Of the law. That we were right. That is what I am trying to accomplish._

Javert.

_Do not finish that sentence. And no, I don’t know what you would do anymore. You are my dearest friend, and yet I feel you slipping away every second, morphing into this person I don’t know. You have power, you have prestige, you have even more wealth, but what will you have when that’s destroyed your family? When it’s destroyed you?_

Arthur.

_Be better like I know you can, Michel._

Astra.

_I love you, sir. Like my father before me. But my path lies with Rene's, and I will share his fate, and he mine. And that fate isn't being locked inside your house as if we are misbehaving children. It is here, aboard this ship, with this crew, fighting our damnedest to make progress happen._

Frantz.

_Come to Nassau, and show me who you are._

Rene.

A sob bursts from Michel’s throat and he lets it come, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” he breathes to no one, because everyone is gone. “I’m sorry,” he says, whispering an apology to people he’ll never remember, and people who’ll only ever remember him as the East India captain who chained them in his hold.

The sobs quiet after a few minutes, and he sits up, wiping his nose on the handkerchief still in his pocket, a decision forming in his mind.

He knows what he must do.

* * *

**Nassau, the Bahamas.**

Once they reach Nassau, Combeferre remembers just how grateful he is for his friends.

“Easy there,” he hears Grantaire say from one side of Enjolras, gentle, but there’s still a slice of teasing in his voice. “Don’t want you crumbling to the ground, I’m afraid it would insult your dignity a bit.”

“Quite,” Bahorel says from the other side as they help from the longboat, Joly flitting about them like a nervous bird, Astra standing close by, eyes flitting from her son a few times to gaze at the island around her. “It wouldn’t do.”

Enjolras nods, chuckling at them, but his face remains pale and he winces in pain, Combeferre’s heart clenching along with him. Courfeyrac comes up from behind, grasping Combeferre’s hand.

“He’ll be all right,” Courfeyrac says, running his thumb across the back of Combeferre’s hand in comfort. “It’s just going to be a while.”

“But the infection,” Combeferre says, his body already reminding him of the lack of sleep, insistent as he’d been about staying up with Astra when a fever struck Enjolras a day or so after the battle.

“It’s staying contained,” Courfeyrac says, more worry edging into his voice now. “Joly told us this morning. Do you now remember?”

“I’m so exhausted I’m not sure what I remember right now,” Combeferre admits. “I’m just…I worry about his arm. What if it should have come off and we risked his life trying to keep it? What if the infection spreads?”

“Frantz,” Courfeyrac says, wrapping a reassuring arm around Combeferre’s waist now, an inversion of their stance a few days ago when Combeferre held back a struggling Courfeyrac trying to swing at Javert. “You trust Joly, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Combeferre answers. “I just…”

“I know,” Courfeyrac says. “I know.”

“He’d hate losing his arm,” Combeferre says. “But if…”

“I think it’s going to be all right,” Courfeyrac answers. “He’s just…he’s going to be in pain for a while, and feverish. And he’s going to have to take it slowly, much as he might dislike it. But he knows the seriousness of the wounds this time, he’s listening.”

“I reminds me of seeing him hurt after his grandfather would go after him,” Combeferre says without really meaning to let the words escape.

“I know,” Courfeyrac repeats. “I felt the same.”

The crowd on the beach diverts their attention, and Combeferre sees large handfuls of pirates scattered about, taking in the damage to the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_. Several sails needed full replacement on both ships, Feuilly said, and Bossuet reported that the port side of the _Liberte_ and the starboard side of the _Misercorde_ both needed extensive repairs. But they were salvageable, Combeferre reminds himself, and he should be grateful for that. Up ahead of them he sees Feuilly and Valjean talking with members of Edward Teach’s crew who approached them, offering assistance with the repairs. He watches Feuilly and Valjean shake the mens’ hands, no doubt accepting, but he cannot make out their words. Captain Robins speaks with Fantine, and Combeferre catches several words about bringing food and possibly the assistance of their own surgeon to see to more of the injured men.

“There’s so many people reaching out to help,” Astra says, coming up beside him, eyes trailing over where Joly and several of the Amis help Enjolras onto a cot they plan to carry him back to the house upon despite his protests.

“Oh, there’s plenty of squabbles,” Combeferre says. “Particularly between men loyal to either Ben Hornigold or Henry Jennings. But when something like this happens those tend to be put aside. The threat of the navies of England or France or Spain, the threat of losing the island, or even wiping out piracy itself is too much. Most of us fight for the same things, we just…disagree on means, sometimes,” he says, gesturing out into the distance where two men look ready to throw punches over something, and he finds he cannot help but chuckle.

Astra laughs and before he quite realizes what’s happening she pulls Combeferre into an embrace. “I missed you a great deal as well, you know,” she says, and he feels his shirt dampen a bit from a few tears escaping Astra’s eyes. “I’m so…I’m proud of both of you. I cannot wait to learn about everything you’ve been doing. Everything that goes on here.”

“We missed you,” Combeferre says, pulling back and smiling at her. “We always wished we could bring you here, you know. So despite all of this, that finally happening is a bright spot.”

She kisses his forehead at that, then moves over and seizes Courfeyrac, kissing his cheek. Combeferre walks beside Joly as they walk back to the house, and once he sees Enjolras settled in he goes back outside, sitting on the sand by his sea grape plant, now a small tree. He puts his knees up to his chest and rests his chin on them, looking out toward the sea. He’s only alone for a few minutes when he senses a familiar presence behind him.

“Frantz,” Chantal says, concern in her voice. “What are you doing out here, darling? I’m certain you need a change of clothes, and some food. And perhaps a look at some of those cuts you’ve got.”

“I was checking on the sea grape,” Combeferre says, pointing at the plant.

“Mmm,” Chantal says, sitting down beside him. She puts an arm around him, encouraging his head onto her shoulder. “Talk to me _cheri ti gason_ ,” she continues.

Combeferre releases a sigh, looking up at his mother when he hears the old term of endearment, spoken to him soothingly during dark nights on Saint-Domingue when summer thunderstorms ripped through the hot, sticky air and he couldn’t sleep.

“As excited as I was to spend time with Papa, to get schooling in Port Royal,” Combeferre begins. “I was so sad to leave you, could scarcely imagine any place other than Saint-Domingue as home. But then somehow, for a time, Port Royal was a second home. Even when things grew so grim, because Rene was there. We've always protected each other, through everything. But I couldn't protect him from his fight with Javert, where he very nearly had this throat slit open. I couldn't protect him when Javert shot him. At least when his grandfather hit him I could clean him up, even if I couldn't fix it. And when his grandfather's threats against me grew too dangerous? We got each other and Auden out of there. He's been hurt before but...not like this. Not like this. I suppose part of me thought perhaps he was bulletproof. Foolish. I should know better just how human he is. How human we all are. But he always just…gets back up, and then a few days ago, he couldn’t."

Chantal pulls him closer, sensing he’s not done speaking, running a hand up and down his arm.

"It is...silly, perhaps, but I...I cannot help but remember the day Papa died and he said...he bid that Rene I should protect each other, always. It was a promise made by a child who did not yet understand all the things life would toss his way, even if he was learning too quickly, but I cannot help but feel as if I have not held up my end, now."

Combeferre sniffs, feeling the tears in his eyes, wiping them away with his hands. They were safe, they were away from Kingston and back with their friends, with their family, yet he has trouble summoning his hope because he cannot banish the sound of Rene’s shout of pain from his mind.

"Oh Frantz," Chantal says, her voice chasing the memory away. "That isn't true at all. I'm sure Rene has felt the same, in fact he said as much to me before, when talking to me once about the night you discovered the slaves. He couldn’t protect you from what happened that night because what happened was everywhere, was built into the framework of the society we lived in. You cannot protect each other from everything, but only lend support and your love in the face of what happens. That is all you can do, my darling. You have stayed by each other’s sides in light of all of it, I know that’s all your father would have asked. Your father who would be proud of you."

Combeferre smiles a little wider. He sits up, removing his spectacles and cleaning them on his shirt.

“You always find a way to quiet my mind,” he says. “How do you do it?”

“Well I am your mother,” Chantal replies, tousling his hair. “It’s my job, I think. The job of a good mother, anyhow.”

Combeferre pauses, a knot of nerves forming in his stomach.

"Am I selfish?" he asks. "For going out to risk my life so often when I might yet tell others to not put their mothers in such a position for grief?"

"A bit hypocritical perhaps," Chantal teases. "But no, Frantz. I know you belong out there, fighting side by side with Rene. That crew would be far more lost without you navigating them upon the sea as you do, guiding their thoughts to a different place with your wisdom. A guide in more ways than one, I think."

"I'm not certain about the wisdom," Combeferre argues. “You might be a bit biased.”

"Did you not stop Rene from making a grave choice with Javert?" Chantal asks. "I would consider that wisdom. And that’s just the start."

Combeferre feels anger smack him at the sound of Javert’s name.

“I still cannot…I cannot believe Javert tried to kill Rene. I shouldn’t have such trouble, yet I do. And if Feuilly hadn’t stepped out of the way of the bullet he would be dead, for certain,” Combeferre says. “And Commodore Enjolras, surrendering like that I…”

“It is a great deal to take in,” Chantal says, shifting her braid over her shoulder. “And I think some rest is called for. I’m sure Rene would love your company.”

As if summoned by her words, Combeferre sees Astra come up beside them, changed out of the too-large breeches and into one of Fantine’s skirts, paired with a white button up shirt. She’s kept the hat, blonde hair loose and blowing in the breeze.

“Frantz,” she says, smiling over at Chantal, the years falling away from her face as she gazes around at the island, something bright in her eyes despite everything happening. “Rene asked if I might come find you. Is this your tree?” she asks, gesturing at the sea grape.

“It is,” Combeferre tells her. “A sea grape. Started out small, but with Prouvaire and Joly’s help it’s grown quite large and rather useful.”

“Wonderful,” Astra says, breathing in the air around her deeply. “Auden’s gone to retrieve some food for Rene, and I think he’d like it if you’d sit with him for a little while, if you are feeling up to it?”

“Of course,” Combeferre says, his spirits lifted after his talk with his mother and the sight of his home around him. “Are you coming back in?”

“Yes,” Astra says. “But I thought I might give you two a little time.”

Combeferre nods, letting his mother kiss his cheek before he goes, glancing back once more at the pair of women, his mother taking Astra’s hands in hers. With everyone tending to the ships and other errands he finds the lower floor of the house devoid of the usual activity, the stairs creaking as he makes his way up toward the room he shares with Enjolras and Courfeyrac. He finds Enjolras lying in bed, the covers pulled up despite the heat of the day, the fever still plaguing him.

“Frantz,” Enjolras says, a kind of relief in his voice. “I was hoping you’d come up.”

“Thought I’d come sit with you for a little while,” Combeferre says, pulling a chair up next to the bed. He runs his hand along Enjolras’ hairline, noticing him shivering even as sweat beads on his skin. “You’re sweating,” he continues. “Might be a good sign for the fever breaking.”

“Or the heat outside,” Enjolras jokes, dry.

“Let’s hope for the former,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras takes his hand as it comes away. “Any news?”

“Joly said he might sew up the wound later today,” Enjolras say, a strand of pain running through the words. “He wanted to make sure it bled as it needed to, while we were still on the ship, and let the bandage catch it.”

“We’re lucky for Joly,” Combeferre says, pulling Enjolras’ hand closer and putting a light kiss on his fingers before laying it back down the bed. “How’s the pain?”

“I…manageable,” Enjolras says. “Better than before. I dislike the Laudanum, but it works. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just small cuts,” Combeferre assures him. “I promise. I…” Combeferre hears his voice crack. “I know it hurts a great deal, but I am very relieved the bullet didn’t go somewhere else, and that you managed to defeat Javert. I never doubted you could but when I saw his sword at your throat I…” his voice dies off, and he cannot quite force it out now.

“I’m here, Frantz,” Enjolras says, holding his hand tighter. “I’m still here. Not the Avenging Angel yet perhaps,” he says rolling his eyes at the name. “But I’ll be all right.”

Combeferre nods, reaching up and brushing a few strands from Enjolras’ face.

“The papers have had a field day with that name, haven’t they?” Combeferre says, laughing.

“So they have,” Enjolras answers, wincing at a stab of pain as he shifts in the bed.

“Sleep, my friend,” Combeferre tells him. “You need it.”

For once Enjolras doesn’t argue, but urges Combeferre to sit on the bed next to him, and the latter obliges, sitting against the wall, legs stretched out. Enjolras keeps hold of Combeferre’s hands as his eyes flutter closed, sleep claiming him quickly under the influence of medication.

Soon after, Combeferre finds himself following.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica.**

Javert and Michel speak only when necessary over the course of the journey back to Jamaica, largely of damages to the ships and discipline among the crews. There’s no discussion of the plan once they arrive back in Kingston, and Rene’s name is never spoken. Javert catches Michel’s eyes on him from across the deck a dozen times, but to his surprise there’s less of the anger he expected, but a sadness so intense it looks as if Michel might break open at the seams. As they step off the ship there’s a light brush of Michel’s fingertips against his shoulder but no words, and before Javert turns Michel’s gone down the docks, his dress far less immaculate than usual.

A few hours later, Javert finds himself summoned to Baron Travers’ home, his heart hammering in his chest harder with every step toward the door.

What if they dishonorably relieve him of his duties?

What if they _prosecute_ him?

One of Baron Travers’ house slaves answers the door when he knocks. She looks nervous and already Javert senses the tension coming from the main parlor. Michel stands in the entrance hall with his first officer Rollins, speaking in low tones.

“Yes sir,” Javert hears Rollins say, clasping Michel’s arm, one of the few men allowed such familiarity with his commanding officer. “You may count upon it.”

Rollins looks up as Javert approaches, but Javert cannot read Michel’s expression.

“Captain Javert,” Rollins says, not unfriendly. “Good luck if I may so, sir.”

“Thank you Rollins,” Javert says, nodding. “You did an excellent job keeping the men in line on our journey home.”

“Just doing my duty sir,” Rollins says. He looks once more at Michel before he goes. “My best, Commodore Enjolras.”

With that Rollins exits out the front door, leaving Michel and Javert alone. They consider each other, but Javert holds his questions about Rollins, largely because he doesn’t want to know the answers. Besides, something more urgent lies in front of them.

“Please follow my lead,” Michel says in Javert’s ear, barely audible. “I would not see you as the subject of their wrath, no matter what happened between us a few days ago.”

“Michel,” Javert tries to argue, but Michel holds up a hand, irritated again.

“Please, Nicholas,” he pleads. “There is no need for you to be irreparably damaged by this.”

Javert finds he cannot do anything but obey. They walk toward the parlor, and when they enter, Javert thinks he’s never seen Baron Travers so angry. Admiral Adams sits beside him, less visibly enraged, but he greets them coldly.

“You returned here with _Chase_ possibly beyond repair, without Rene, without the Combeferre boy, without a single pirate aboard,” Baron Travers says, beginning the conversation without ceremony. “Do you care to explain this _utter_ failure to me, Michel?”

“Before I do sir,” Michel says, open anger in his voice. “I’m afraid I must give you some news.”

“What?” Baron Travers says, annoyed.

“Astra snuck aboard the _Navigator_ without my notice in the rush of our leaving,” Michel says, and Javert hears the tears threatening him already but he swallows, looking more solid, more determined than the broken man he saw a few days ago. “I’m afraid she remains with the pirates.”

“Kidnapped?” Baron Travers says, a sliver of rare concern slipping into his features.

“No,” Michel says, looking uncomfortable. “She chose to stay there.”

"You are telling me that my daughter snuck onto your ship without notice and is now cavorting with pirates?" Baron Travers asks, voice deadly. "You are telling me you simply allowed her to remain with them?"

"There was not a great deal I could do, Andrew," Michel says though clenched teeth. “She would not come with me.”

“Commodore I am certain we require further explanation of the wider picture,” Admiral Adams says, voice growing icy, his eyes flitting over to Javert and wondering at his silence, but there’s a bit more understanding in his eyes than in the baron’s, given his own experience of sea warfare. “What happened out there?”

“We caught up to them,” Javert says at Michel’s subtle nod. “The battle began, two against two, but largely locked in a dead heat for the duration. I’m afraid that I…was locked in the brig, for a time.”

“You lost to my grandson in a swordfight,” Baron Travers says, unimpressed and reading between the lines.

“Yes sir,” Javert says. “But eventually I made my way out.”

“I am surprised you made it out of a pirate brig alive, that they did not kill you point blank,” Admiral Adams says, the first sign of any kindness toward the situation. “But still this does not explain the situation.”

At this Michel steps forward, standing between the two men and Javert.

“The battle continued,” Michel said. “And there was precious little hope of victory on either side. Then, Rene was injured, and rather than risk his life, rather than go on until all of our ships were ruined, I put in my surrender to Valjean.”

He does not, Javert notices, make any mention of who shot Rene.

Silence sits for thirty seconds or so until Baron Travers’ voice slices into it, quiet but wrapped in rage. “ _What_ did you say, Michel?”

“You heard me, Andrew,” Michel answers, defiant.

“You surrendered to a pirate?” Baron Travers shouts, voice ringing through the room, but Michel doesn’t flinch. “Well _good for you,_ Michel, you may just be the one to sign Rene’s death sentence.”

“Andrew, I swear to god if you threaten my son in front of me again you will regret it,” Michel says, danger in his voice, and Baron Travers jumps, surprised at the words. “I have allowed…”

But Admiral Adams interrupts, cutting Michel off.

"Do you mean to tell me that you called a retreat and let two notorious pirate ships escape?" Admiral Adams, says, fury reverberating in his voice. "After everything you have done to stop them? Good lord, I cannot believe my ears."

"My _son_ was injured," Michel says, holding up a hand when the admiral attempts to interrupt. "I am not saying I didn't flout orders. I am also not asking you to forgive it. But I could not choose my duty over my son, in the end. I have done that enough.”

"You son who is a pirate," the admiral says, harsh. "I understand the complications for both of you, but I expected better of you, Michel. And of you, Captain Javert."

"I was the senior commanding officer," Michel says, words steady. "It was my choice. Not Captain Javert's. In fact he disagreed with me and made himself known."

_Not until after it was too late_ , Javert thinks, but he doesn’t interrupt, remembering Michel’s desperate face even as the lie makes his stomach roil.

"That is because Javert would know better than to be so heinously insubordinate!" Baron Travers shouts. “You have a soft hand with Rene even now, after all of this. You couldn’t bear to fight him anymore so you let him scamper off with his pirate friends.”

“What were the terms of the surrender?” Admiral Adams asks, visibly growing tired of the personal arguments.

“Largely a cease-fire and a promise not to pursue as we left so that we both might gather our dead and wounded,” Michel says. “And that I could take Captain Javert with me.”

“And they simply…released you?” Admiral Adams asks, bewilderment overcoming his anger.

“Yes,” Michel says, and Javert hears an unsettling amount of admiration in his voice. “They did.”

“Captain Javert,” Admiral Adams asks. “Anything to add?”

“Only that the battle was one of the fiercest and most difficult I’ve seen in my years,” Javert says. “And despite my…” he pauses not looking at Michel for fear it will reveal the half-truth of his protests against the surrender. “Disagreement about the surrender at the time, I am also not sure there was a better option. Otherwise we might have been stuck out there on the ocean with two ruined ships instead of one, and more dead men.”

Admiral Adams nods, but says nothing.

Michel steps up again, closer to Baron Travers, who still breathes hard with unchecked anger. When the next words emerge from Michel’s mouth, Javert feels the shock bang against his chest, even if he should have seen it coming as sure he feels a thunderstorm coming at sea when the air grows heavy, the clouds gathering in the distance.

"I am resigning my post," Michel says, meeting his father-in-law’s eyes, direct and for the first time, unafraid. "Effective immediately.”

"You are damn right you are," Baron Travers says, a low growl in his throat. “And you can be certain I will write a letter to Commodore Sullivan in Spanish-town _today_ and let him know of your disgusting betrayal to the Company. You’re done, Michel. And your reputation with you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Michel practically tears his East India coat off, gazing at it for a split second before tossing it down at Baron Travers’ feet.

“I’m afraid I have betrayed a few things far more precious in my loyalty to the Company,” Michel says, his words laced with poison as he spits them upon the ground. He pulls his commission papers out of his pocket, tossing them down with the coat, and they spill out. Javert reads them, the ink faded, but legible.

_On this day, Michel Enjolras was promoted to Commodore of the East India Trading Company, taking over command of both the Navigator and its freshly built consort ship…_

“The remaining weapons are mine,” Michel says. “But if there is anything else that belongs to the Company I will gladly hand it over as soon as I’m able. But I would remind you I do own the _Navigator_ , and it is mine to do with what I choose. My first officer has been alerted to my decision, and is beginning the process of transferring my men to new stations.”

“If your wretched men stay in the Company at all,” Baron Travers threatens. “They are, I fear, more loyal to your person than to East India.”

“And I fear,” Michel says, openly mocking Baron Travers, and Javert’s mouth almost drops open. “That the transfer of men is one thing you have very little say in, Andrew. You may only say if you do not wish them enlisted on the crew of the ships you own. But though you own many, there are other ships in the region, other ships in the world. My men will not pay for the personal squabble between you and me.”

“How dare you?” Baron Travers begins. “How…”

“I have let my fear of you control my actions for far too long,” Michel says, interrupting. “Those are my sins, and I will have to atone for them.” Michel steps closer, inches away from Baron Travers’ face, and Javert thinks the older man looks afraid now. “I said nothing to you about your slave-ownership or how you treated them. I took part in the slave trade myself because I knew you would be angry if I did not and I will pay in whatever comes after this life for that, I am sure. I betrayed my dearest friend’s last wish to protect his son. I let you threaten and abuse Frantz and make him fear for his safety. I let you…” Michel voice breaks, but he remains unabashed. “I let you _beat_ my _child_ until he was bruised and bleeding. Rene would have every right never to forgive me for it.”

Javert hears Admiral Adams’ shocked intake of breath at this; there were always rumors of course, but hearing it admitted so freely was something else.

“Astra was right about you every step of the way,” Michel continues, and oddly, Baron Travers doesn’t interrupt. “And I should have listened. It is too late, now, to change anything about the past. But understand this; if knowing you did not give me Astra, if it had not given me Rene, I would regret ever laying eyes on you until my dying breath. There has been a great deal of talk of monsters and men, well. I think it is _you_ who are the monster, sir. And myself, for never stopping you enough to make a difference.”

Javert watches Baron Travers’ face flush deep red, both embarrassed and furious, but words do not come, only the sound of his enraged breathing, and Michel turns to Admiral Adams.

“We disagree on this,” Michel says. “But you are a fine sailor and officer, Admiral Adams. And as a final favor to the professional relationship we have, I would ask you to please remember that Captain Javert is one of the finest officers I’ve known. And I beg you not to punish him in anger at me. It would be waste of a talent for the Royal Navy, I am certain.”

Admiral Adams also looks a little lost for words but nods, eyes flickering over to Javert before going back to Michel.

“Good day, gentlemen,” Michel says. “If you require more, I shall be at home, finishing my report before I hand in my ship’s log.”

Michel turns to go, catching Javert’s eye for a brief second before he’s out the door, and Javert stays frozen in the middle of the room, unsure whether to stay or go.

Fortunately, Admiral Adams makes his decision for him.

“A moment, Captain Javert,” he says, looking over at Baron Travers, who stares after his son-in-law.

“I should have him court-martialed,” Baron Travers finally says. “I should have known his recent questionable behavior would amount to something like this, but I admit to my shock, Admiral Adams.”

“No matter his insolence and disobedience here,” Admiral Adams says. “I think the Company will not agree to a court martial against Michel. His reputation may be ruined soon for the future, but it was a shining one nevertheless. Plenty in your own ranks of East India looked up to him, and I know plenty of naval officers respected him greatly for his work with us. I think our best course of action is to determine how to go about both capturing these pirates and retrieving your daughter, at present.”

“Quite,” Baron Travers says, eyes landing on Javert like a predator on prey. “I cannot believe Michel would simply leave her there. That has thrown me most of all. She could be hurt! Killed!”

“If I may, Baron Travers,” Javert says. “I do not think they will do either. Not the crews she is with, and in any case if any other pirate had a mind to harm her, I’m certain Rene would not allow it. He may be a villain, but I imagine he will keep his mother safe.”

“Defending pirates, Captain Javert?” Baron Travers asks, eyes narrowing.

“That was not my intent sir,” Javert says, keeping his voice even as nerves prick his skin, which grows hot from anxiety. “I only know these pirates, and Valjean and Rene in particular, obviously. I would set at least some of your worries at ease.”

“We will have to bide our time with this,” Admiral Adams says. “They will surely stay hidden on Nassau while they recover and we have some recovering to do of our own. I am afraid, Baron Travers, that there is little I can do in the way of your grandson now, given all of this. Perhaps a life sentence in prison is the best I could manage. But even that may not do, they may want to make an example of him at the noose. Certainly they will all the others, and as a captain who spat on his only chance at a lesser sentence? Well. They will want to crush the myth by crushing the man, I expect.”

Javert flinches involuntarily at these words, cursing himself when it draws Admiral Adams’ attention.

“I know this is difficult for you, Captain Javert,” Admiral Adams says, not without sympathy, but the decision in his voice remains unyielding. “I know you knew the boy from a young age, and you care for him. But he is a pirate, you understand. Who threw away the chance at grace we deigned to give him. You know his list of crimes as well as anyone.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, clearing the emotion from his voice even as it makes his stomach burn.

He’d _known_ this would happen.

“My grandson is rotten,” Baron Travers says, and though there’s the slightest hint of upset in his voice, it’s laced more with embarrassment than grief. “Perhaps he has been from the beginning. My priority must be extracting my daughter from those rogues. But I am also concerned about Michel’s behavior.”

“We will need to keep an eye on him,” Admiral Adams agrees. “If he tries to interfere obviously we will have to take legal action against him. But for now, I think we’d best not tempt his temper. He may yet wish to hold onto some of his honor. Return to France perhaps.”

Javert, for his part, says nothing. He doesn’t know what Michel will do, but he knows he won’t stand still. That he won’t simply let these men take Rene and Frantz and Astra without his own answer.

Not anymore.

“Captain Javert,” Admiral Adams says, turning toward him. “Despite Michel’s behavior I am inclined to take his advice where your person is concerned.”

“Thank you sir,” Javert says, voice quiet, doing his best to stop it from shaking.

He doesn’t like where this is going.

_Don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask._

“You have been an impeccable officer,” Admiral Adams continues, but Javert feels Baron Travers’ eyes on him, sharp and suspicious. “But I will not lie to you, this incident is extremely disappointing. But I know you can do better. If you consent to it, I would like to keep you at the head of the mission to bring these particular pirates in. You know them like no other, and I know you are patient enough to wait until the right time, which in this case may be a matter of a few months, I imagine. Exact strategy should be talked of at a later date, I know you are quite exhausted as well as injured and you need your rest. But what do you say?”

“Sir are you certain you wish me to do this?” Javert asks. “I would understand if you did not, after what happened.”

“Quite certain,” Admiral Adams says.

“I will do as you order Admiral Adams,” Javert says, hearing how hollow his voice sounds, fear pulsating through him as Baron Travers’ threat resounds in his head once again. “If you would like me to try once more to bring these pirates in, I shall do so.”

“Very good,” Admiral Adams says, clasping his shoulder, and it reminds Javert painfully of Michel.

“Michel is wrong about a great many things these days,” Baron Travers comments, meeting Javert’s eyes, the meaning held clearly within them. “But he did do a good job with you, Captain Javert, added to, I’m certain, Admiral Adams’ tutelage. You are always so honorable. Principled. And…” he hangs onto the final word, smirking. “Obedient.”

“Thank you Baron Travers,” Javert says, forcing sincerity into his voice but all he wants to do is be alone, be away from this house, be away from everything so he might put his head on straight and reckon with the unalterable changes in his world. “I appreciate you saying so.”

“Dismissed, Captain Javert,” Admiral Adams says. “Do get some rest.” He pauses just before Javert turns toward the door. “And captain?”

“Yes sir?”

“Remember that this mission is what stands between you and a less…desirable commission,” the admiral continues. “There are always needs for captains to guard our fishing fleets and the like, you know. I’m sure you’d much rather be bringing in pirates.”

“Yes sir,” Javert repeats, swallowing. “I wish you both a good day.”

Javert walks swiftly toward the door and out, keeps walking down the drive and cuts through town toward his house, not looking at anyone or stopping for anything despite knowing his cupboards are nearly empty. He fumbles for his keys when he reaches the front door, heading straight for the bedroom, his head pounding. Part of him wants to find Michel because there’s no one else to talk to, no one else to trust, and he hates himself for even needing that in the first place. But a larger part of him doesn’t want to find Michel because then he’ll know what he’s doing, then he’ll know for certain if he’s about to break the law, and he cannot contemplate that right now. He sits down on the edge of his bed instead, tossing off his boots and not giving a care for where they land before curling on his bed still fully dressed, falling into a deep, nightmare fueled sleep.

* * *

**Kingston, Jamaica.**

Two nights later, Javert receives a note from a runner. There's no signature, but he recognizes the handwriting at once.

_The old docks. 10. p.m._

Michel.

Javert looks over the note again as if he thinks he’ll find secrets written between the lines. The slash on his back stings less, but the wound on his leg hurts still. He’d spent most of the past two days either asleep or obsessively overseeing the repairs to the _Chase_ , receiving mostly bad news from his boatswain and his carpenter, who shook their heads and muttered.

_I’m not sure we can repair her Captain Javert_ , his boatswain said a few hours ago, looking slightly afraid. _And if we do, I’m not sure she’ll be the same._

He only left the _Chase_ at the behest of his ship’s surgeon, who pressed some laudanum on him.

_Take a dose of this sir,_ the surgeon said. _It’ll make the pain ebb enough to sleep soundly so you can heal properly._

For once he gave in, his leg aching enough to make him swallow down the bitter medication, dealing with the haziness it brought by falling asleep as suggested. He sits down in his armchair, staring at the note.

Here he was, at the precipice of everything he hoped to prevent; Michel was up to something, and given the note, the secrecy, Javert knows it likely borders on being illegal, at the least. But he finds a set of fresh clothes nevertheless, pulling on his coat and his boots, trying his hair neatly but leaving his hat behind him. He walks slowly toward the old docks, long out of use after a hurricane struck, largely destroying them. He follows the light of the stars as he walks, eyes flitting up toward the full moon, guilt haunting every step.

What was he taking part in?

He arrives after a twenty minutes’ walk, and even in the darkness he sees the relief on Michel’s face as he approaches the meeting spot. Michel wears simple black breeches and a black coat along with his most trusted boots, as if he hoped his clothing might make him fade into the night. His hair’s smoothed away from his face and tied back as normal, but his hat doesn’t cover the cut above his eyebrow that matches his son’s.

The glint in his eyes looks like Rene’s, and memories of the battle come roaring into Javert’s head in sharp color and overwhelming noise. His sword at Rene’s throat, Rene’s sword above him, threatening to come down, the sound of Rene’s voice, hand pushing him away.

_Don’t touch me, Javert._

The feeling of his own mind melting inside his head.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Michel says, and Javert feels some of the tension in his chest ebb at the friendlier tone, the words drawing him back into the present. “I’m glad you did.”

"Why are we meeting here?" Javert asks, eyes lingering on a ship anchored a short distance away, and the solitary bag on Michel's shoulder, full to bursting. Michel’s first mate Rollins stands near the shore, keeping an eye out, another of Michel’s East India officers at his side.

"There are men stationed near my house," Michel says. "No doubt to keep watch on me and my movements should I try and interfere with whatever plans my father in law and Admiral Adams have. “I didn’t feel it safe to meet there, for your sake. I don’t want them knowing you saw me.”

Javert’s stomach sinks.

“Where are you going?” Javert asks.

But he already knows the answer.

"I..." Michel begins, swallowing nervously. "I am going to see about Rene."

Javert turns away, face flushing with emotions that change so rapidly he cannot name them.

Michel is leaving.

Michel is leaving _him_.

He swore to himself he would sacrifice his friendship with Michel in order to save him, in order to spare Rene, but it hurts more than he realized it would. He feels that familiar hand on his shoulder, turning him back around.

“My mind was half-made up before you told me what you did,” Michel says, and the gentleness in his voice makes something somewhere in Javert’s heart crack, the echo resounding through his chest. “I am not…I am not leaving because of that.”

Javert forces his gaze, meeting Michel’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to kill Rene,” Javert says. “I thought I was saving you. Saving him.”

“I know,” Michel says, a rush of tears in his voice.

“Then why are you going?” Javert asks, hating the weakness in his voice.

"I betrayed my son and Frantz and Arthur,” Michel begins. “I hurt two young boys who trusted me. I destroyed my marriage and isolated Astra. I let my hateful father in law control me and abuse my son and threaten Frantz, and I let fear overtake me.”

“Michel,” Javert tries to say, but Michel puts a hand up, continuing.

“I took part in trade that made profit off the backs of human suffering,” Michel says, growing more and more choked up. “And no matter my courage in the heat of a battle or with the swing of my sword, I’m afraid I have not been truly courageous for a long time. I cannot fix the things I did, I can only try to atone, somehow. I don’t know how, yet. But I do know that I must see to my son. And that’s why I have to go. I owe him that."

Nausea sweeps over Javert, and he cannot respond, cannot find his senses, so he asks a question instead.

“How will you go?” Javert asks, even as his rational mind tells him he doesn’t want to know.

“Some of my men knew of a privateer ship that will take me to New Providence Island,” Michel says. “To the side of Nassau where there are still a few inhabitants left, a bit away from where the pirates are, and I will make my way across from there. But I must go tonight, before my father in law finds a way to stop me

“You’re going to a pirate island?” Javert says, shock in his voice as though this wasn’t clear already. “They’ll kill you, Michel.”

“Rene had offered his protection to me, once, if I came to Nassau,” Michel says, wincing at Javert’s horrified expression. “I had thought to take him up on it.”

“And you are asking me to keep this secret?” Javert asks, but there’s no real anger in his voice. “You are commanding me to let you go now, to a pirate island?”

“I’m not commanding,” Michel says, soft. “I am simply asking. I didn’t want to put this burden on you, but I only…I wanted to see you. To give you something.”

“I did not think you could forgive me,” Javert says, honest. “After….everything.”

“To deny you forgiveness would be to deny the part I played in all of it,” Michel says. “To deny that I upheld a system that made you feel as if you should be ashamed of your lineage. Upholding a system that had me twisted in knots to save Rene and Frantz, forcing me to choose between love and duty, when really my duty should have been to them. I…I am sorry, Nicholas. I am not sure what is right and what is wrong, anymore. But I do wish I’d given us both more room to breathe.”

Javert still cannot answer, putting his hands behind his back and twisting his fingers into knots.

“But I have something for you,” Michel says, taking note of his silence. He holds out a set of keys, placing them into Javert’s palm.

“The keys to the captain’s cabin on the _Navigator_ ,” Michel says, and Javert stares down at the object in his palm. “I know the _Chase_ is severely damaged, and as the _Navigator_ is mine to give, I thought it only right it should fall to you.”

“I…” Javert says, feeling his hands start shaking. He wants to be angry at Michel, he wants to raise his voice and sound the alarm, but he cannot, even if he should, and there lies the vulnerability he feared. “Thank you.”

“I left a note for my father in law and another for Admiral Adams that I am going back to France, and that I am leaving the _Navigator_ to you,” Michel explains. “The deed is signed by my attorney. I suspect eventually they will know where I went, but the navy will not turn their nose up at a ship like that, and my Company superiors in Spanish-town have no claim to it. Wait for them to contact you about it so they don’t suspect you saw me, but I wanted you to have something from me, now. Hence the keys. And I left you something in the drawer of my desk. I bid my men to leave that part of my cabin alone when cleaning out the ship.”

“Michel,” Javert says, grasping the keys like a man grabbing for the line when he falls overboard. Above them, it starts raining, a light drizzle falling down and breaking into the heat. “I don’t…”

He’s cut off by the feeling of Michel’s hand on his cheek. Michel smiles, but it’s ripped apart with regret.

“There are people who love you, Nicholas,” Michel whispers, tears sliding down his cheeks now, mixing with the rain, and Javert feels the pressure building behind his eyes. “Rene. Your mother. I certainly count myself among that number. I…”

Michel’s words drop off and he pulls Javert to him in an embrace. Javert’s arms hang limply by his sides until finally he returns the gesture.

He cannot honestly recall the last time someone hugged him like this. His mother, perhaps. Possibly Rene, when he was young. Javert lets himself lean into it for a few seconds even as he curses his weakness, fingers grasping at the coat of the man who was like a father to him.

But he cannot force the words out, even as they resound in his head.

_I love you too._

“Come with me, Nicholas,” Michel whispers, pulling back and searching Javert’s face, even though he already knows the answer. “You have always been like a younger brother to me, like another son. We could start over, we could…”

 “ _Go_ , Michel,” Javert says, interrupting him, finally summoning words. “Go before I change my mind about turning you in.”

"I understand," Michel says, squeezing Javert's shoulder again before stepping back. "I also understand they will send you after me and I understand if you accept that post, even though you are letting me go now. But that doesn’t change what I’ve told you. The door to Nassau is open, Nicholas. Please remember that."

“Please _go_ ,” Javert half-shouts, voice ragged with grief.

“Take care, my lad,” Michel says, smiling at him once more before he turns to go. “And take care of the _Navigator_ for me.”

With that Michel walks away, glancing behind him once more. Javert watches him shake Rollins’ hand before climbing into the longboat and rowing toward the ship, disappearing into the inky darkness.

Javert stands there, still holding the keys to the _Navigator_ , the rain coming down harder and harder around him until finally the ship pulls away until it’s nothing but a faint outline in the distance.

Then, Michel is gone.

Javert stares up at Orion, the constellation fading as the night draws on.

_It’s better this way_ , he tells himself, swiping at the tears spilling from his eyes, flowing more freely in the past week than in all the passing years since he was a child. Now, he’s alone. Now, there is no one to make him weak.

_No one._

 

 

 


	27. Book III (Swirling up from the Sea): Part 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel arrives in Nassau, finding himself at Valjean and Fantine's doorstep. Enjolras continues recovering, and the crews of the Misericorde and the Liberte continue making sense of all the events of the past few weeks. Back in Kingston, Javert takes ownership of the Navigator, feeling his foundation growing more and more unstable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes here:
> 
> One, I mention a book called The Blazing World, which was written by English writer Margaret Cavendish, and was considered to be, apparently, a forerunner to science fiction. And also written by a woman! Both of which are reasons why I thought Astra might enjoy it. 
> 
> I also mention John Locke the political philosopher later on, and since he was a precursor to people like Rousseau, I thought Enjolras and Feuilly might enjoy reading/discussing him.

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 11**

**Nassau.**

Even with favorable winds, it takes seven days to get to Nassau. Dark covers the island like a blanket when they arrive, and to Michel’s chagrin there’s not much moonlight, with only a few faded stars littered across the cloudy sky.

“Could I trouble you for a lantern, captain?” Michel asks, hand going to his back as it twinges from a week spent sleeping in a hammock. “I’m afraid I have to trek a bit, or so I’m told.”

“Two or three miles,” the captain tells him, handing over a spare lantern and lighting it for him. “The pirates have most of it, the few inhabitants ended up closer to the interior. But you can’t miss it. You’ll hear it before you see it. We’ve got business to do with them, but it can wait till morning, so you’ll have to go on your own if you’re going tonight.”

“I’m afraid it cannot wait,” Michel says.

“Don’t usually see your kind consorting with pirates,” the captain comments.

“You’re here consorting with them,” Michel protests, irritated. “I imagine that doesn’t go in your ship’s log.”

“I’m not a former East India commodore, renowned across the region,” the captain says, raising his eyebrows, and Michel presses a few more coins into his hand for his secrecy.

With that Michel steps onto the island, hefting his heavy bag over one shoulder and the smaller over the other. He stands, looking out at the darkness spilled out before him, interspersed only with the candles from nearby windows. Everything he owns now rests on his shoulders, and there’s no going back for anything. Not now, when he’s certain that soon enough, they’ll realize where he’s gone. The house would be sold off no doubt, but he made sure the _Navigator_ was legally signed over to Javert, and in the end that was what mattered. The house in Kingston was full of nothing but emptiness and bad memories. Most of his bag was taken up with clothing, money, and a few mementos, but he’d also tucked Astra’s copy of _The Blazing World_ in at the bottom, assuming she hadn’t possessed the time to take it herself. She’d had it since he’d known her, and he thought having her favorite book might give some solace in a time of uncertainty. He’d written a letter to his brother, swearing him to secrecy but wanting someone in his family to know he was no longer in Kingston; he’d handed it off to Rollins for mailing, and he supposes there was always a risk of interception, but he owed his family in France some word of where he was, or they’d think him dead when their regular correspondence to Jamaica received no reply.

He reaches into his coat, feeling for the pocket watch Arthur gave him, stepping forward.

Frantz.

Astra.

 _Rene_.

Images of Rene laying bloodied on the deck fill his brain, mixing with horrible memories of amputations he’d witnessed at sea, tapering off with a sharp, painful remembrance of Javert’s face a few nights ago as he left Kingston.

He ventures forward, the lights of the small remainder of non-pirate inhabitants falling behind him. He’s never been afraid of the dark, but something about the new territory makes an unsettled feeling grow in his chest, and even if he’s a few miles away from the main pirate settlement, he swears he hears the ghostly tune of a sea shanty floating toward him on the breeze.

He shakes his head, walking faster, the sky a canvas of black and the ground barely better, his lantern a small orb of orange-yellow light bobbing next to him. He turns at hearing a noise, though he’s not sure if it’s real or imagined. As he walks in the darkness he hears Arthur’s teasing lilt in his head, telling old tales of ghost ships sailing across the water in the night, there one moment and disappeared the next.

 _Some carry the souls of those who died at sea_ , he hears Arthur say, _but they won’t harm you. The Flying Dutchman on the other hand, well._ He remembers Arthur injecting drama into his voice, trying not to smile, the other sailors on the ship his rapt audience. _That’s meant to be a sign of doom. Sometimes the sailors aboard try to send messages to the living…from the dead._

“Come now man,” Michel says to himself in a whisper. “You aren’t afraid of the dark. These are pirates. Men. Not ghosts.”

 _Don’t hang too close to the edge Michel my friend_ , he hears Arthur say one night for the amusement of 9-year-old Rene and Frantz. _Or you might fall down to Davy Jones’ locker! The devil of the sea, they call him._

In his musing Michel misses a rather large rock, tripping and nearly falling before he catches himself.

“Merde,” he mutters. “You’d be pleased to know your silly stories stuck with me after all this time, wouldn’t your Arthur?”

He walks faster still, remembering his father in law’s words about Arthur and piracy.

_I could have predicted that wretched Combeferre boy would go this way. His father would have too, if he’d lived long enough. But he didn’t, so instead you put his son on the pedestal his dead father left behind him, failing to face facts._

Loathe as he was to believe Andrew correct about anything anymore, he cannot let go of the nagging suspicion, cannot forget Frantz and Rene and Astra and Chantal’s insistence that Arthur would have been proud of their sons for their choices.

“What am I doing?” he asks the sky, willing Arthur to tell him from the beyond somehow that what he’s doing is right. “Is this correct? Is this what you would do? Or would you have done it years ago?”

There is of course no answer, the air around him still aside from a warm breeze coming in from the water every so often. He feels for the pocket watch again, lifting his lantern up higher.

Then after a roughly a half-hour’s walk, he hears laughter, and decidedly not the ghostly kind. He walks up a small hill, seeing lights bursting over the edge as he steps over, breathing a sigh of relief now that he sees signs of life.

 _Lots_ of signs of life, in fact, though it’s nearing midnight.

He steps closer toward the beach, seeing small knots of pirates gathered across, laughter and chatter and even a bit of singing echoing into the air, and frightened as he still is of the utter unknown facing him, he feels warmth spread across his skin, chasing away the goosebumps from earlier. He stands there for a few minutes, taking in the scene. A great deal of people mill about despite the hour, some on the beach, some going up another hill to what he assumes is a tavern, given the state of people coming from the other direction. He squints, seeing buildings and houses dotted across the terrain, and a fort off in the distance.

 _There’s something like 1,000 pirates on Nassau now_ , he hears Javert say, and something in his chest twinges at thinking of the friend he left behind, remembering the growing disquiet in his eyes he could do nothing to soothe.  

No one pays him any mind, but given the notoriety of his name and fear some of them will know his face, Michel pulls his hat down closer, untucking his shirt from beneath his waistcoat and loosening his cravat. He continues on, looking for someone to approach so he might ask the directions to where Valjean and Fantine live, not daring to say his son’s name for worrying they’ll make the connection. A few pirates have made the beach a lovers’ cove, including he notices with some surprise, two men. No one seems to think twice of it, and he remembers his days in boarding school where he’d met Arthur, remembers seeing a few scattered pairs of boys in hidden dark corners at night, thinking themselves concealed. Michel had stared at them not out of rudeness but curiosity, something familiar and yet unfamiliar all at once stirring in his chest, mixed with an odd, hot shame he couldn’t decipher. He looks away now, eyes landing on a pirate standing alone, drunk but friendly looking enough.

“Lost?” the pirate asks, surveying him.

“I’m looking for Val…for Fauchelevent’s house,” Michel says, cordial. “Do you know where that is?”

“Course,” the pirate answers, jabbing his thumb in the general direction. “He lives with Fantine and what seems like half his crew about ten minutes’ walk back near that more forested area if you keep walking straight. Hey, you know, you look a bit like his consort ship captain,” he says, but there’s no malice in his voice. “Kind of uncanny.”

“Indeed,” Michel says, feeling awkward. “Thank you sir. I uh…do you know much about Fauchelevent?”

“Can’t help but know things,” the pirate answers. “He and Fantine are well respected around here, don’t get involved in a lot of the squabbling, you know, between Hornigold and Jennings’ men. Near on everyone likes them, even Charles Vane, who likes no one but his own crew usually, though he’s a bit bloodthirsty for my taste if I’m telling the truth,” he continues, rambling. “And old Teach respects the hell out of them, and he dictates a good bit on this island. But us old timers have known Fauchelevent's consort captain Rene since he was a lad! Proper pirate, that boy.”

 _Teach_ , Michel thinks, remembering the wanted posters with _Blackbeard_ spelled across the top.

“So I’ve heard,” Michel answers, feeling a swoop of sadness at the idea that even this stranger knows his son better than he does. “And who is your captain, if I might ask?”

“Sam Bellamy of the Whydah sir,” the pirate answers. “He’s friends with Fauchelevent and his crews.”

“They sound like…” Michel hesitates, but he finds himself believing the words. “A good sort.”

“A swig of rum for your walk?” the pirate offers, an odd kindness, but a kindness nonetheless.

“Thank you sincerely but no,” Michel says, nodding once more before walking in the direction the pirate pointed. “Um…do enjoy.”

“I will sir!” the pirate calls back to him.

A part of Michel cannot help but chuckle at the intoxicated glee in the man’s voice as he walks off, reaching what he thinks is the right house after a few minutes’ walk. He faces the house several paces in front of him, taking a deep breath before stepping forward again. As he gets closer in the dim light of the lantern he sees three figures sitting outside: two young women and a young man. He remembers the first young woman briefly from the battle, Fantine’s daughter he thinks, though he cannot recall her name. She sits back to back with the other young woman, working on some sort of knitting, a dirk strapped to her belt while the other young woman cleans a pistol with rapt attention. The young man sits on the other side of Fantine’s daughter, his knee resting against hers, and what looks like an accounts log in his lap, his eyes intent upon the pages.

He steps closer, alerting Fantine’s daughter immediately. She jumps up, her knitting falling to the ground as she pulls out her knife. The sudden movement upsets the young man, who topples over, but the other young woman stands up in tandem, glaring at Michel.

“Oh, sorry Marius!” Fantine’s daughter says, reaching out a hand to help him up. He pushes stray black hairs out of his face, smiling at her. Then, the girl’s attention turns back to Michel. “Commodore Enjolras,” she says, suspicious and clearly surprised. “What brings you to Nassau?”

Brushing aside his shock at seeing a young woman pull a knife on him, he raises his hands up in the air, indicating he doesn’t mean any harm.

“I came to see my son,” Michel explains, brief. “I was worried after his injury.”

“An East India officer came to a pirate island to see the son he was just busy arresting two weeks ago?” the second young woman asks. “Sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

“It is a long story,” Michel says. “But I am not here with any ill intent, or with any sort of force behind me as a trick. I understand why you would think so, but I just…” his voice cracks as he goes on, close as he is to seeing Rene, Frantz, and Astra again. “I wanted to make sure Rene was all right. To see Frantz and my wife. To…to speak with Valjean and Fantine, if I might.”

Cosette considers him, eyes brightening with empathy. She sheathes her knife.

“Marius, darling,” she says, grasping the young man’s hand. “Would you mind going to get my mother?”

“Certainly,” Marius says, squeezing her hand tight, eyes lingering on Michel before he goes inside.

“Thank you,” Michel says, feeling Eponine’s eyes sticking on him, distrustful. “I…uh…you are Fantine’s daughter?”

“Cosette,” the young woman says in affirmation. “This is Eponine, her younger brother Gavroche is on the crew also.”

“The young man who spit after Javert,” Michel says, remembering the incident as Gavroche left the deck of the _Navigator_ , heading back to the _Liberte_.

“Well, seems like Javert deserved it, doesn’t it?” Eponine says, arms crossed over her chest. “He shot your son.”

Michel’s spared the answer he doesn’t have when the door opens again, not revealing Fantine but another young man, the one who held Rene as Joly tended to him. Feuilly, Michel thinks he’s called.  He looks remarkably like Valjean, dreadlocks and all, though he’s clean shaven and his skin a lighter brown.

“Marius told me that…oh,” he says, eyes landing on Michel. “You _are_ here.” He looks over at Cosette. “All right?”

“Perfectly fine,” Cosette tells him, the practiced ease of siblings between them. “Commodore Enjolras is here to see Rene.”

“It’s not…commodore anymore,” Michel says, hoping it will ease the anger he sees in Feuilly’s eyes. “I resigned my post.”

“Is Javert with you?” Feuilly asks in response, sharp.

“No,” Michel says. “He would not come with me. I…may I ask how Rene is?”

“Ill,” Feuilly says, flat.

“Jahni,” Cosette chides, soft, laying a hand on his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” Feuilly says, only partially apologetic. “But this man arrested three of my dearest friends, including his own son, and I know how they were treated in that house. He chased after us and started one of the worst battles in my _memory_ , and I’ve been at sea since I was a child.”

“You have no reason to trust me,” Michel says. “But I swear I am not here to harm anyone. I am not seeking to betray you.”

Feuilly glares at him, sighing before responding. “Rene got an infection on the journey back,” he explains. “It is starting to dissipate, but is not entirely gone, and he’s weak from it and he’s on bed rest right now. It looks like the limb is safe unless there’s a recurrence, but it’s going to take time for it to heal, and the pain is bothering him more than he lets on. So it is better, but it is not over.”

“Could I just…may I see him?” Michel asks.

“We will wait for my mother to come out,” Cosette says, holding firm, but there’s sympathy in her eyes. “She won’t be but a moment.”

They stand there in thick, heavy silence, and Michel removes the hat from his head, crumpling it in his anxiety.

Eponine’s eyes land on the cut above his eyebrow, half-healed.

“That looks nasty,” she says, almost impressed. “Where’d you get it?”

“Uh,” Michel says, unsure. “A piece of wood from the cannon fire. Your master gunners know what they’re doing. Bahorel and Prouvaire, correct?”

“Correct,” Feuilly echoes, a smidge less anger in his voice, but it burns in his eyes, quiet and no less real.

The door opens again, this time revealing Fantine with Astra next to her. Astra’s dressed in a long striped skirt and a white button down, borrowed, he images, her hair done up in a loose braid. Astra’s eyes widen at the sight of him, a smile flickering on her lips before dying off.

“Michel,” Astra says. “You…you’re here.”

“And you look well,” Michel says, relief passing through him at the sight of her. “I’m glad.”

“I told you she would be safe with us,” Fantine says, her tone matching Feuilly’s. “Come inside, I imagine we need to speak about some things.”

“Fantine,” Feuilly says, looking unsure.

“It will be all right,” Fantine says, gentler, pressing Feuilly’s hand.

Feuilly doesn’t protest further, but nods, and Michel follows Fantine and Astra inside, bewildered at how comfortable Astra already looks in her new surroundings.

“Weapons at the door,” Fantine says.

“Do you honestly believe I would try and attack any of you when I am so vastly outnumbered?” Michel says, losing his patience.

 “I expect you will do as I ask as you are in my house,” Fantine says, a bite of impatience in her own voice. “Besides, it’s policy.”

She gestures toward the wall in the foyer, and Michel sees racks holding cutlasses and pistols. Chastened, Michel lays down his own.

“Apologies,” he says. “It has been a long, anxious journey.”

He follows Fantine and Astra to a small sitting room not far off the hall, finding Valjean and Chantal already sitting on the sofa. He cannot quite make himself look at Chantal for long, so he studies Valjean instead, noticing he wears a set of reading spectacles quite like Michel’s own. “Commodore Enjolras,” Valjean says, and Michel thinks he sounds as if he expected him. “Do sit down.”

“It’s not…” Michel struggles with the words, each one a wound for how many times he’s repeated them in the past hour. Captain. Commodore. He’d loved those words, perhaps more than he should have. But he’d taken pride in them, and now they’re gone. “It’s not commodore anymore.”

“Michel, what…” Astra tries, sitting down next to him. Fantine remains standing, moving over toward Valjean’s chair, her hand resting on the back. “What happened?”

“Are you here to try and take Frantz and Rene?” Chantal asks, panic in her voice, mixed with determination. “Because I won’t stand for it, Michel.”

“No,” Michel says, forcing his eyes onto her, guilt seeping into his bones, Arthur’s judgement for the wrongs Michel’s done Chantal sitting heavy on his shoulders; he is not even sure how to begin apologizing to her, and perhaps there is no apology that is sufficient. “I promise I am not. I just wanted to see Rene. It was all I could think of.”

Chantal doesn’t answer, fiddling with the end of her braid. In the silence Astra’s question hangs in the air, and Michel realizes he’s expected to answer.

“Upon our arrival back in Kingston Javert and I were asked to explain ourselves,” Michel begins. “The admiral and your father, Astra, were…displeased to say the least. It is rather a long story but I resigned my position in the Company. I expect they would have taken it soon enough.”

“You…resigned?” Astra questions, and Michel sees a glimmer of belief in him in her eyes, faint but still real.

“Yes,” Michel says.

“And did Javert tell you what he did?” Astra asks, fury bubbling up in her voice. “That he tried to kill Rene?”

“Yes,” Michel repeats, the memories of the admission sending a sharp spasm of pain to his chest. “He is…something is not right with Nicholas, but I’m afraid that is a lengthy story, and I would…please let me see Rene,” he says, feeling his frustration build, exhaustion flowing through him.

“Where is Javert?” Valjean asks, not answering him.

“Still in Kingston,” Michel says. “He would not come with me, and has kept his position, though I imagine it is more precarious than before. I…” Michel feels tears threatening him, swallowing back. “I wanted to bid him farewell, and to his credit, he let me go. So I told him I was bequeathing the _Navigator_ to him, and then took my leave.”

“And how did you come?” Fantine asks. “How did you get a ship to Nassau of all places?”

“A privateer was willing to drop me on the other side where the small settlement is,” Michel says, hand grasping the arm of the sofa.

“And there’s no one after you?” Valjean asks.

“Not yet,” Michel says, words growing short. “I told them I was returning to France, but I imagine they’ll suspect, eventually. I am not…I am not demanding you protect me or let me stay, I just want to see my son.”

“I cannot in good conscience send you out on Nassau alone,” Valjean says, a wave of annoyance crashing down into his tone. “Some of the pirates might be quite unforgiving if they realize who you are, I’m afraid. You’ll stay here.”

“None of this matters,” Michel says, a shout burgeoning in his voice. “You are keeping me from my son, and I need to see him, do you understand? I need to see him _now_.”

“Michel,” Astra says. “Don’t speak to them like that.”

“How are you so…” Michel stumbles over the words. “You are so comfortable here, how is that?”

“Because she hasn’t done anything to make us distrust her,” Fantine says, glaring at him, but there’s a flicker of a parent’s empathy in her eyes.

“I am trying…” Michel starts, the tears in his voice audible to everyone now.

“A word if you would, Michel,” Valjean says, dropping his use of commodore. “In my study please.” He turns to Fantine, softening his voice. “If you could let everyone know what’s going on so no one is shocked please, Fantine? I think most everyone is awake still.”

“All right,” Fantine says, and Michel follows Valjean upstairs, hearing the voices of the three women behind him.

Valjean’s study is just off the stairs, and Michel looks down the hallway, seeing a long row of doors, likely to bedrooms, he surmises, and a few seconds later he hears another set of footsteps coming up. Fantine’s, he supposes, coming to tell the inhabitants of the house.

“Sit,” Valjean says, a command in his voice, though it’s not unkind.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper,” Michel says, doing as asked. “I am only very worried about Rene, and it has been a trying journey.”

“I imagine it has,” Valjean says, lighting another candle before sitting across from him. “You have given up a great deal these past few days.”

“Please don’t condescend to me sir,” Michel says. “I am in no mood.”

“I’m not,” Valjean says, and Michel meets his eyes, surprised at his words. “I’m being quite serious. I know what it is for you to give up your commission. To leave your house and your life behind. To surrender to me as you did. To leave Javert behind.”

“Leaving Javert behind that way was the most difficult part, despite what I know he almost did,” Michel says. “The rest of it was less difficult than I imagined. Not easy, mind you. But when I realized it was right I…I couldn’t do anything else.”

“It’s as I said on the ship,” Valjean replies. “You were willing to give those questions lingering in your mind credence. Javert is not ready.”

“Perhaps not,” Michel says, remembering the unstable look in Javert’s eyes as they’d fought, hollow and angry and lost. “But they’re driving him mad even still, I fear.”

“A topic we should certainly discuss,” Valjean says, folding his hands. “But for now, I think you would like to see Rene and Frantz.”

“I understand you are not inclined to be comfortable with the idea,” Michel says. “But I mean them no harm.”

“I only bid you to remember not to push them,” Valjean says, and Michel sees memories in the other man’s eyes he wasn’t present for. “This will take time for both of them, and Rene is ill. I will not see them upset further. Your intent before was to help them, and it did rather the opposite. But I see this time you are willing to approach them on their terms, rather than your own.”

There’s not a threat in Valjean’s voice, but his words are firm, leaving no room for argument, and beneath the gentleness, Michel also sees a man who would do anything to protect those he sees as family.

“You were always a contradiction in terms, you know,” Michel says. “To Javert. And a mystery to me. Javert wanted to capture you because he felt responsible for you becoming a pirate. That I understood. But there was always this look in his eyes when he spoke about you. A desperation to understand.”

“Understand?” Valjean asks.

“How you could be a pirate and a good man,” Michel explains, and at the sincerity in his words, he sees the corners of Valjean’s lips lift upward before growing serious again.

“A conversation Javert and I are not finished having,” Valjean says.

Michel breathes in, steeling himself. “You have been a father to Rene and Frantz where I failed,” he says, voice run through with regret. “I do not claim to understand this world of piracy or how I feel in relation to it, but I do know I must thank you for that.”

There’s a space of silence, and then Valjean reaches out, placing his hand on Michel’s shoulder and squeezing it before pulling back and rising from his chair.

“I’ll take you to them,” Valjean says. “Come on.”

He follows Valjean down to the end of the hallway, seeing Astra waiting by a door, looking nervous. She shares an odd look with Valjean, and Michel thinks there are yet more secrets of hers he doesn’t know, but now is not the time to ask them.

“I’ll let the two of you talk,” Valjean says. “But I’ll be in my study down the hall, should you need anything.”

Astra nods at him in thanks, and then the two of them are alone.

“My father is furious, I imagine?” Astra asks without preamble.

“Very,” Michel confirms.

“But you stood up to him,” Astra says. “I should like to hear that story, when there’s time.”

“I should have done it long ago,” Michel says. “I should have…I told him you’d been right all along.”

Astra smiles at him in response. It’s a tired, sad smile, but it’s genuine, the first one of that sort directed at him in years.

“I’m proud of you, Michel.”

“Don’t be,” Michel says. “I don’t deserve it.”

“I shall feel as I wish,” she says. “You’ve come all this way now. Why are you hesitating outside the door talking to me?”

"I…” he tries, nerves pricking at every inch of his skin now that he’s here. “Come with me?" he asks.

"You came all the way here, Michel," she says, reaching out and grasping his hand like she hasn't done in years, not forgiving him yet but still understanding. She's better than him and always has been, he decides. Braver. "You can do this."

"I don't know how," he whispers.

"Just talk to them, _mon cher_ ," she says, even gentler now, the endearment a call back to when they were young and Rene just born, the time when they'd been closest. He’d pushed her off with his sins, and even if she was likely never in love with him as he was with her, they’d been friends once, and he misses that. "I'll wait here."

"All right," he says, tears in his voice already.

He breathes in, opening the door, and the sight before him melts the years from his heart. Frantz sits in a chair next to the bed, another one empty beside him, which no doubt must have contained Auden. Rene sleeps in the bed, pale but breathing well, golden hair fanned across his face. There are three beds in the room, and he realizes they must all three share the space. A smack of guilt hits him for separating them on the _Navigator_.

They hadn’t been separated overnight for twelve years.

Combeferre blinks as if he isn't sure what he sees is real, them simply stares, waiting.

"May I sit?" Michel asks, gesturing at the empty chair.

Combeferre nods, words still escaping him.

"How is he?" Michel asks.

"Improving," Combeferre says, still short with him. “The infection is fading, but not gone, and he’s in pain and on strict bed rest for fear of it returning full force. Joly believes his arm is safe from amputation, if things proceed as they are now, but he’ll have to recover full use of it, which will take time. It may always be stiff and slower than the other one. He’s…he lost a good bit of blood, it’s just…it’s going to take time."

Michel nods.

"Why are you here?"

There’s less anger in Combeferre’s voice than there is exhaustion at hoping once more that Michel has changed.

"Rene asked me to come,” Michel says. “I thought it seemed to time to listen to him."

“Javert isn’t with you?”

“I couldn’t get him to come,” Michel answers. “I tried.”

Before Combeferre answers the noise wakes Enjolras, whose eyes flutter open, blinking several times before focusing on his father. They’re blue as ever and so similar to his own, but purple smudges streak the skin beneath. He remembers Rene’s hand grasping his own, remembers the lightning in his eyes.

_Come to Nassau, and show me who you are._

“Papa,” Enjolras says, the faintest traces of a French accent lining the English one, and a jolt goes through Michel. Not _father_ but _papa_.

At the sound of the single word, the barely held together pieces that make up Michel break apart. All of Michel's carefully prepared words leave him, and a sob bursts from him, ragged and loud.

"Rene," he says. "Oh my boy, I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. And Frantz, oh _god_ I...."

The words die in his throat and he cannot stop crying now. He looks down, unable to bear their faces, these two young men he loves and yet has hurt so deeply. He sees the slaves on his ship, their faces sharper than ever, each of them a son or a daughter or husband or a wife, each of them a _person_ , his sins against them and their humanity crashing on top of his head like he’s standing under a waterfall.

He sees it all, and he doesn’t know what to _do_.

Michel feels a hand covering his own, the palm sweaty from fever. He looks up, realizing it’s Rene’s. Then there’s a third hand coming over the top, joining them all together.

Frantz.

“I know you cannot forgive me yet,” Michel says, find his voice among the tatters. “Perhaps you cannot ever truly do so, and I would understand. But I am here now, if you need me.”

“Can you help me sit up?” Enjolras asks, groggy, directing his words at Combeferre.

Michel doesn’t interfere, watching as Combeferre helps Enjolras up, adjusting the pillows behind him. Michel sees his injuries more clearly now, the bullet wound sewn up beneath the bandage, white cloth wrapped all the way around the sword cuts on his forearm and hand. Enjolras shakes his head as if making sure he’s not hallucinating, eyes squinted against what must be pain.

“How are you here?” Enjolras asks. “How did you get to Nassau?”

“I resigned my post,” Michel says, seeing Combeferre’s eyes widen. “And I took a privateer ship here. I told them I was going back to France.”

Enjolras nods, processing the information.

“And…” Enjolras looks at him, the alarm of the six-year-old boy in his eyes.

“Javert isn’t here,” Michel says. “I could not get him to come with me. But I…I know what he did, Rene. You didn’t tell me.”

Enjolras looks away, but Michel sees the tears in his eyes, the wound of one of his childhood heroes trying to kill him still fresh and bleeding as much as the ones from the cutlass and the bullet.

“Something was wrong with him,” Enjolras says. “His eyes, he…the look in his eyes. I am too tired to articulate myself properly.”

“I know,” Michel says. “You don’t need to explain.”

“Did they try to arrest you?” Combeferre asks. “Baron Travers and the admiral?”

“No,” Michel says. “I left before they could truly have the chance. But I’m certain they’ll figure out where I went, eventually.”

“And the _Navigator_?” Combeferre asks.

“I bequeathed it to Javert,” Michel asks. “It was all I had to give him. I told him before I left Kingston.”

“He let you go?” Enjolras asks. “To come here?”

“He did,” Michel says. “He is going to keep the secret of seeing me before I left, I believe.”

Enjolras winces, hand going toward the bullet wound.

“You need to sleep Rene, or Joly will have my hide,” Combeferre says. “Take this,” he continues, holding out a small dose of Laudanum.

Michel watches Combeferre curl his hand over Enjolras’ shaking one to steady it, helping him tilt the glass to his lips. Enjolras lays back down, shuffling against the pillows. With a look of assent from his son, Michel puts his hand against Enjolras’ forehead, wiping away some of the sweat.

“Sleep, son,” Michel says. “I will still be here in the morning.”

“I believed in you still,” Enjolras says, eyes falling closed.

“I know,” Michel says, tears slipping loose from his eyes again. “I know you did.”

Michel knows from experience his son isn’t an easy sleeper, but the combination of the exhaustion, the medication, and pain push him into it, and after a minute or two Michel finds himself again in the silence with Combeferre.

“It is going to take time for me to trust you,” Combeferre says, voice trembling with emotion. “To forgive you. But I think my father would be proud of you today.”

Combeferre removes his spectacles, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve before looking back at Michel with that piercing, intelligent gaze he remembers.

“I am proud of _you_ ,” Michel says. “You are fighting a fight I didn’t have the courage to see before. And you are an excellent navigator in your own right. I should have seen just how proud Arthur would have been of you. I am sorry for ever saying otherwise. I am sorry for ever telling you to…” Michel hates the words that come out of his mouth, but he has to say them. “Learn your place. It is not what someone trying to stand in your father’s place should ever have said.”

Combeferre reaches out, pressing Michel’s hand tightly, though he cannot quite make eye contact.

“Frantz,” Michel begins, careful with his words. “That day when you found the slaves, I…”

“Not now, please,” Combeferre says in a whisper touched with a grief still fresh after all this time. “Another day, perhaps.”

“All right,” Michel says, heeding him.

The door opens again, revealing Courfeyrac, who looks at Michel with more curiosity than ire.

“Auden,” Michel says.

“Commodore,” Courfeyrac replies, a pinch of anger in his voice, but it flickers out, leaving suspicion and hope in its wake.

“It’s just Michel,” Michel replies. “No need for the commodore, anymore.”

Courfeyrac nods in understanding, eyes roving protectively over his two friends.

“I’ll leave you both to it then,” Michel says, hand grasping once more at Enjolras’ blankets before he rises from the chair, offering it back to Auden.

His eyes stick on the three of them and then he steps back out into the hallway, finding Astra waiting for him.

“See?” she says, voice low. “I knew you could do it.”

There's a pause, and then Astra moves forward, resting her head on his shoulder, a sob breaking out. He balks; he's not certain the last time he witnessed anything like this from her, and wonders if he ever truly has. He thinks back to their vicious argument when he found out the truth about Astra helping the boys run away, and realizes he shouldn't have demanded an apology from her; he owed her an apology for forcing her hand, for everything he's ever done to hurt her, for the careless flaunting of his affairs when he was frustrated with her, for every crime he committed against their child. He wraps his arms around her, loose at first and then tighter when her fingers press into coat as Javert's had a few days ago, and the similarity drives tears to his own eyes.

"I was so afraid he would die, Michel," she says, and no matter their personal strife, here among this strange new setting they find themselves in, he is familiar. Here, they are still the parents of the same child. "Seeing him bleeding like that..."

"I know," Michel says, fingers fiddling soothingly with the hairs at the back of her neck. “I’m sorry Astra,” he says. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For hurting you. For orchestrating what led to this moment. You were right. I shouldn't have brought them to Kingston. I'm just...I'm sorry.”

“I know,” she says, sniffing. “I know you are.”

“I’ll do anything,” Michel says. “I cannot make up for everything I’ve done but I have to try.”

“We’ll figure it out, Michel,” Astra says, pulling back. “We’re all here now."

There’s the sound of footsteps behind him, and he turns, seeing Cosette standing before them again.

“Monsieur Enjolras?” she says, unsure if she’s using the right form of address. “Papa asked me to make up the big sofa in the sitting room for you, and I thought I might show you, if that’s all right?”

“Of course,” Michel says, looking questioningly back at Astra.

“Rest,” she says. “We can speak in the morning.”

So Michel follows Cosette down the stairs, the house quieter than previously.

“Here we are,” Cosette says, sounding nervous, but there’s a light in her expression that Michel finds settles him. “Plenty of blankets, though I doubt you’ll need them given how warm it is, and Papa said you could borrow some of his clothes but I saw your bag so I think you’ve brought some of your own.”

“I have,” Michel says, sitting down on the sofa. “But thank you.” She studies him, hands folded behind her back, and a question brims on his lips. “You’ve been sailing a long time?” he asks.

“Since I was a little girl,” Cosette answers, twirling one of her curls around a finger. “I knew Captain Myriel, who taught my mother and Papa Valjean.”

“To be pirates?”

“To be pirates,” she echoes. “They rescued me from slavery with the help of a pirate crew. That set my foundation, I think.”

“I imagine so,” Michel says, feeling as if something in her gaze sees right through to the vulnerable places in his heart. He senses the strength of spirit in her, senses that she is one of those people who cannot ever entirely break. He’d sensed the same about his son, and the idea makes him smile. “Well, thank you again, mademoiselle. You’ve got quite the stance with that dirk.”

“Thank you,” she says, brightening. “I uh…” she takes a quick step forward patting his shoulder awkwardly. “I hope you get some sleep.”

She leaves him after that and he lays down on the sofa, too exhausted to change his clothes.

He’s in a _pirate’_ s house. On a _pirate_ island, and yet even as the ache in his chest persists, his heartbeat slows down for the first time in days, one question reverberating through his mind.

_What now?_

* * *

**Nassau. The next morning.**

Enjolras awakes to the sound of Bahorel’s laughter.

“Gavroche you can’t sneak up on me like that when I’ve got food in my hands, lad,” Bahorel says, and Enjolras smiles even if he hasn’t opened his eyes yet.

“I dare you to call me lad one more time,” Gavroche challenges.

“Lad.”

“Oh hush, both of you,” Prouvaire chides. “You’ll wake him up.”

“Bit too late for that,” Enjolras says, opening his eyes, making to stretch both his arms and then thinking better of it when his injured arm screams in protest.

“See there?” Prouvaire says, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking pointedly at Bahorel and Gavroche.

“You sound like Joly,” Bahorel says, flicking at Prouvaire’s shoulder and drawing a smile out of him.

“Well I believe we should all endeavor to sound a bit more like Joly,” Prouvaire argues, laughing. “We’d all be dead or more of us missing limbs if not for him, I imagine, and he does most of it with a smile on his face.”

“So he does,” Bahorel says, turning back toward Enjolras. “Well, we’ve brought your breakfast up, dear captain, you should try and eat some of it. Combeferre says you’re not doing so well on that front.”

“Combeferre should remember to eat his own, too,” Enjolras grumbles. “He forgets sometimes, while sitting with me.”

“Oh, the two of you,” Bahorel says, laughing again as Prouvaire sets the tray down. “Eat up now, don’t make me force you. Or worse yet, make Prouvaire do so. Contrary to perception, he’s much scarier than me.”

Prouvaire bites back a laugh, swatting at Bahorel like a cat, and Bahorel’s surprise makes Gavroche and Enjolras both emit a peal of laughter.

Then, someone knocks on the door.

“Oh damn,” Enjolras says, trying to stop laughing, releasing an undignified snort. “Come in.”

The door opens and his father steps inside, looking awkward, making his home in the frame.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, looking hopeful that he might be invited inside.

“No,” Enjolras says, clearing the laughter from his throat, still trying to make sense of his father here in Nassau. “Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Gavroche were just bringing me my breakfast. Come in.”

“You really are here then,” Bahorel says as Michel steps inside, sounding civil, but withholding friendship just yet. “Must have taken some effort and a good bit of coin to get here to Nassau undetected.”

“It did,” Michel says. “But I…I knew I had to come.”

“Hopefully when you are able to go out you will find Nassau to your liking,” Prouvaire says, and Enjolras sees him giving Michel that poignant stare he has when trying to sort someone out in his mind. “That is, if you’re planning on staying.”

“As long as I am…welcome,” Michel says, unsure if he’s landing on the correct word. “I plan on it.”

There's another knock on the door, which serves more as a warning than a request, and it opens, revealing Eponine.

"There you are," Eponine says, directing her words toward Gavroche, who automatically sticks his tongue out at her. "It's our shift to do repairs on the _Liberte_ and you know it, stop trying to get out of it."

"Neglecting your work, are you Gavroche?" Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow.

"No," Gavroche says, the lie making his voice go up higher, but there's delighted amusement in his eyes. "But you aren't my captain right now, Courfeyrac is, until you're better."

"Hmm aren't I still though?" Enjolras says, seeing Gavroche trying mightily not to smile.

"Smooth-face," Gavroche says.

"Brat," Enjolras says, swallowing his laughter again.

"Do as he says Gavroche," Bahorel says. "And as your sister says. Or I'm afraid I'll be angry at you."

"You're never angry at me," Gavroche says, cheeky, but he does get up.

"There's a first time for everything," Bahorel says, flicking him on the arm.

Gavroche grins, shoving at Bahorel’s arm, expression softening as he reaches out toward Enjolras, pressing his shoulder lightly before heading toward his sister. Eponine tussles Gavroche's hair when he approaches, and he yelps in protest.

"I'm eighteen Eponine, stop it," Gavroche says, tugging on her long, loose locks in retaliation. “All your noise is going to upset Enjolras’ recovery if you’re not careful you know.”

“See you all a bit later,” Eponine says rolling her eyes fondly, shoving her brother out the door, no matter that he’s taller than her.

“Well,” Bahorel says, as Gavroche and Eponine go. “We’d best be off, Jehan, we agreed to help my mother at the house today and she will not be denied.”

“No,” Prouvaire says, nodding before looking back at Enjolras, stern. “Eat that,” he says, pointing at him. “Or I shall tell Joly.”

“I will my friend,” Enjolras says, agreeing. “Don’t worry.”

“Monsieur Enjolras,” Prouvaire says, nodding in farewell as he and Bahorel go and close the door behind them, leaving Michel and Enjolras alone.

“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time,” Michel says, and Enjolras sees a twinkle in his father’s eyes, looking like his younger self. “It was nice to hear.”

Enjolras smiles, gesturing at Michel to sit.

 “How are you feeling?” Michel asks, obliging.

“Better than I was last week,” Enjolras admits. “I don’t really recall everything from the journey home, what with the fever. But that is dissipating slowly, though its remnants leave me tired and out of breath. It is…frustrating. I do as Joly requests, but I do not bear being ill well.”

“And the pain?” Michel asks, and Enjolras hears the ache in his father’s voice.

“It will fade, with time,” Enjolras says. “The laudanum helps, even if I dislike how hazy it makes me. The cutlass wounds are healing faster than expected, but the bullet wound is…”

“Slower,” Michel says, finishing his sentence.

Silence rests in the space between them, and Enjolras doesn’t know what to make of his own feelings. He is glad to see his father here, to see him trying to make good, but the old wounds deep in his heart still sting, relief and grief and joy and anger all mixed into one confusing mess. He wonders at the chance for a relationship, even if he wants one.

Yet his father is here, on Nassau. He is not demanding forgiveness, but only asking for what they can find within themselves.

“I am truly glad that you are here,” Enjolras says, and Michel looks as if he might cry again. “But I am not sure what to say to you that is not an argument. And so many years have passed that I…”

“Why don’t you tell me about your friends?” Michel suggests. “About your crew? I should like to know more about them.”

“All right,” Enjolras says, feeling his heart lighten, searching for the words. He’s not sure what to say to his father, but he has no trouble talking about his friends. “I…what do you want to know?”

“Just tell me what they’re like,” Michel says, encouraging. “Anything.”

“All right,” Enjolras repeats, soft and unsure, studying the bedcovers as he thinks. “Perhaps it might sound repetitive to tell you about Frantz and Auden, but it bears saying that Frantz is nearly the talk of all Nassau with his navigational skills. Other crews have even tried to recruit him away from us. And Auden is a natural quartermaster, seems to anticipate the needs of the crew before they even come to him, and with near on 70 men aboard that’s no small matter.”

“No it is not,” Michel says. “He sounds a natural at the task.”

“He is,” Enjolras replies. “Bahorel and Prouvaire are a near seamless team as master gunners,” Enjolras says, feeling a smile slide onto his face. “And they’re teaching Gavroche everything they know. Prouvaire is an excellent poet, which Bahorel says makes him an excellent spy, though I am not sure why the two are related.”

“You have _spies_?” Michel asks, surprised.

“Of course,” Enjolras says, quirking one eyebrow. “Prouvaire and Eponine are best at reconnaissance. It’s how we knew you were sending a spy to Nassau.”

“I,” Michel tries, looking impressed despite himself, and there’s a smirk growing on his face. “Do go on. Is Bahorel the one who taught you the hand to hand?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, feeling his smile widen. “It’s come in quite handy. And Bahorel knows everyone on the island, I think, even if I’ve lived here longer. Joly is the best surgeon we could ask for, and despite what he sees he is still full of so much joy, which I think he and Bossuet have in common. Bossuet picked up ship carpentry after being a blacksmith, and he’s better at it than he’ll let on. Grantaire is a more talented sailor than he realizes, and though sometimes he still frustrates me, he has become a good, loyal friend.”

“And…Feuilly, I believe his name is?” Michel asks. “Is he a relation of Valjean’s?”

“His nephew. Valjean, Fantine, and Cosette rescued him from slavery under an East India captain,” Enjolras says, watching his father’s face fall under his further realization of East India’s sins. "I admire Feuilly more than I can truly say; he taught himself to read, he somehow keeps up with the political situations all across the Caribbean, and often in Europe, where he can. He’s an irreplaceable boatswain. And Cosette knows ships like the back of her hand, I’m certain she’ll be a captain one day, what with learning from Valjean and Fantine all her life. If she ever takes over the _Misericorde_ , I’m afraid we’ll lose Marius as our bookkeeper on the _Liberte_ entirely. When we got here she simply adopted us as her brothers, and that was it.”

Silence falls again as they reach the precipice that is Valjean and Fantine.

“And Valjean and Fantine,” Michel asks, tentative as if fearing his own emotions. “They just...opened their home to you?”

“They did,” Enjolras says, leaving out the part of their shared past with his mother, because that’s her secret to tell. “Fantine knew Chantal and Frantz when he was little, and they offered us places on their crew. I have learned more than I can say from them.”

“You have been happy,” Michel says, phrasing it not as a question, but a statement.

“It is not so simple as one word,” Enjolras says. “There were parts that were very difficult, and the past is never gone. But I have found a way to make what I hope is a change in the world, to do my part in the fight to make things better. To make them more just. And then without entirely meaning to I found, well…” he pauses, suspecting this might cause his father pain. “A family. That shared those same things, even if we risked our lives regularly. But yes,” he says, feeling his smile spread again. “I have been happy.”

“Rene, I,” Michel says, laying his hand out on the bed with his palm up, letting Enjolras either accept or deny the touch. Enjolras reaches out, grasping just his father’s fingers with a trembling hand. “I do not even know where to begin apologizing to you. The things I have done in the past weeks alone, the things I allowed your grandfather to do when you were a boy, the things _I_ did,” he says, eyes trailing over the tiny scar in the bridge of Enjolras’ nose, his free hand ghosting over Enjolras’ forearm. Enjolras breathes in, meeting his father’s eyes as Michel’s hand comes down gently atop the skin, resting there.

“What did you say to him, when you resigned?” Enjolras asks, emotion cutting into his voice.

“A great many things,” Michel says. “But most importantly, my regret at allowing him to treat you and Frantz the way I did. That…he was the monster, really. And so was I, for never truly stopping him.”

“I never thought you a monster,” Enjolras says. “Because I know the better parts of you. I was hurt and I was so disappointed and angry at what you did to me, to Frantz, at seeing you give into things I once heard you speak against. I wanted my father back. And you…” Enjolras feels tears brim in his eyes again. “You never came.”

“I know,” Michel says, removing his hand from Enjolras’ forearm and swiping at his eyes. “And I’m sorry. I’ve come here because I…I know my apologies are not enough. I hope that I can try to atone for some of the things I’ve done, to understand what you do here, with your crew. And to…know you again, if you’ll allow me.”

Enjolras nods, letting go of his father’s hand, feeling overcome.

“And Javert?” he asks, remembering his father’s words from the night previous. “He told you what he did?”

“I asked him directly,” Michel says. “And then he told me, yes. We argued most ferociously because I could scarcely believe it true. But I agree with you when you said something was not right about him. Rene, why didn’t you tell me that day on the deck what happened?”

“Would you have believed me?” Enjolras asks, looking back at him.

Michel’s silence is answer enough, and Enjolras speaks again.

“It is a start,” Enjolras says, and Michel meets his eyes. “You have met me here, where I asked. And now I will meet you, as best I can.”

“Thank you,” Michel says in a whisper. “Thank you, my boy.”

The words strike Enjolras, a warmth throbbing in his chest.

“You are an excellent sailor,” Michel says. “A warrior, as your friend Prouvaire warned me you were. When I saw nearly all your crew drop their weapons after they saw you fall, I realized how much they loved their captain. And how much you’d earned that. I always knew you would be an excellent captain, and I am sorry I forgot.”

A memory fills Enjolras brain from long ago, as he stood with his father at the wheel, Michel’s hand resting over his own, teaching him how to steer.

_A captain should have knowledge and skills concerning all parts of a ship and how it functions. But he should also have confidence in his men, learn to delegate duties so that he may oversee the ship as a whole. So I think Frantz is right. You would make an excellent captain._

Enjolras’ squeezes Michel’s wrist in response, then draws back.

“And what of Javert?” Enjolras asks. “What do you think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know,” Michel says, shaking his head. “I was so angry at him, furious at the idea that he ever thought of doing that to you, but then I saw his regret, saw how _lost_ he was, and I did not know what to think. I did not want to leave him like that, but he would not come. When we fought, he said he never asked you to love him, that he never asked me to love him. I still don’t know what to make of that.”

“Grandfather will send him after me to add salt to the wound,” Enjolras says, bitterness in his voice, mulling over his father’s words, that familiar mixture of anger and grief filling him when he thinks of Javert. “And if realizes you’re here? All the more.”

The conversation ends when there’s yet another knock at the door, and at Enjolras’ word Astra, Fantine, and Chantal all step inside. Enjolras notices Michel’s eyes run over Chantal, opening his mouth to speak to her when he realizes she’s looking at him as well, but they die on his lips, and he looks away, his expression soaked in regret. Chantal looks at him a bit longer, frustrated.

“You’re awake,” Astra says, eyes running over Enjolras’ half-eaten breakfast. “And you’ve eaten, I see.”

“Everyone is very interested in my eating habits this morning,” Enjolras complains.

“Because we want you well of course,” Fantine says, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting his leg, glancing over at Michel, curious but not commenting. “Joly has gone to the marketplace with Bossuet and Grantaire to retrieve some things for me for dinner tonight as well as more bandages, but he bid me to remind you take a small dose of laudanum after you’ve eaten, and if you don’t he shall know when he comes by around noontime.”

“Joly has been threatening me all morning without even being here,” Enjolras says. “Remarkable.”

Astra laughs at this, sitting down next to Michel, and surveying him.

“Have you eaten, Michel?” she asks.

“Well, no,” Michel says. “But I’m all right, I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Fantine says, raising both her eyebrows at him. “We all must grow used to the situation but there’s no need for you to go hungry in the meantime.”

“Oh,” Michel says. “Well, thank you. Fantine,” he says, adding her name at the end.

“I caught Frantz and Auden on their way up here after breakfast,” Chantal adds, smiling at Enjolras. “Planning to sit with you, though as I suspected their beds are barely touched from doing just the same last night, so I took the liberty of sending them to my room to nap for a bit.”

“Someone should,” Enjolras says. “They won’t listen to me at all. I keep telling them if anything happens they sleep feet away, and they’ll know. I desire their company of course, but I don’t want them falling ill themselves from lack of rest.”

“They worry,” Astra says, kissing his cheek and brushing the hairs out of his eyes. Enjolras thinks that even in her short time here, he hasn’t seen such color in her face since he was a child. Astra’s eyes go back and forth between husband and son, but she saves her questions for later. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired despite having only been awake a short while,” Enjolras says. “But the fever feels less troublesome. Joly says it should be gone in a few days.”

“Well Valjean and Feuilly were coming up in a bit to sit with you,” Fantine says. “Maybe read for a bit till you fall asleep again.”

“They don’t need to…” Enjolras tries.

“They want to,” Chantal says, wagging her finger at him. “I swear, you and Frantz are of the same stubborn cloth.”

“So we are,” Enjolras says, chuckling.

After a few more minutes the three women leave, saying they’ll only be just downstairs with Tiena, who is coming by with some materials for clothes for Astra, who once more bids Michel to come eat something. Valjean and Feuilly appear in the doorway, and so Michel rises, giving in to Astra’s pressing.

“I will come back later?” Michel asks, phrasing it as a question. “I brought your mother’s copy of _The Blazing World_ with me in my bag that she so enjoys, perhaps we could read together.”

“I would like that,” Enjolras says, offering his father a last smile. “But only if you let Auden come in and do the voices, he rather enjoys that.”

Michel agrees, then Enjolras watches him bid good morning to Valjean and Feuilly before following Astra out the door.

“All right Enjolras?” Feuilly asks, eyes following Michel as well.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, gesturing at the two of them to sit down. “We were just talking.”

“Jahni’s brought the John Locke you two like discussing,” Valjean says, searching Enjolras’ face for any discomfort. “But he says I have the better reading voice so he brought me along.”

“He’s right,” Enjolras says. “You do have the best voice.” He pauses, looking up at Valjean as Feuilly finds the place where they left off previously. “Thank you. For letting my father stay here. I know it cannot be easy, after everything.”

“He is trying to be a better man,” Valjean says, pulling his reading spectacles out of his pocket and settling them on his face. “And when someone knocks on my door, I do my best to open it to them. I only wanted to make sure you and Frantz would be all right with the situation. And Chantal too, for that matter.”

“It will take time,” Enjolras says. “But we both hoped one day he would find his way, and we would like to try to…begin anew, so to speak.”

Valjean presses his hand, and at Enjolras’ encouragement Feuilly stretches out across the edge of the bed, leaning against the wall, both listening to the deep, soothing lilt of Valjean’s voice.

* * *

 **Kingston, Jamaica**.

Javert feels like he’s in a dream as he steps back onto the _Navigator_.

He takes a few steps forward and halts. It’s only been a week since he set foot on the ship, but without Michel and the familiar faces of his crew, the deck feels foreign. Memories dance in front of his eyes, smoky and out of focus; Rene coming up to him that fateful night, the wooden toy sword in his hand, Michel following along soon after, a smile gracing his face; Rene and Frantz sitting near the bow, their laughter bouncing into his ears; Michel’s hand pressing his shoulder countless times, mentoring him, supporting him, teaching him; the storm and the mast striking Arthur. Years and years of memories, a full spectrum of emotion laid bare before him.

He walks across the deck, a spot near the bow catching his eye.

Blood.

The spot where Enjolras fell.

He stares at the smear, faded and scrubbed but still visible.

He sees Enjolras fall, remembers the heart-stopping, sickening moment when he thought the boy dead. His mind leaves the _Navigator_ and jumps to the deck of the _Liberte_ , sees his own sword to Enjolras’ throat, his stomach nearly revolting in response, and he shakes his head, pushing the memory away.

“Sorry about that spot sir,” his boatswain Stone says from behind him. “The East India officers cleaned in a bit of a rush. Not surprising given…” he stops abruptly, realizing himself.

Javert’s gaze snaps around, glaring. “Given what, Stone? Do you have something to say about the work ethic of the Company officers?”

"No sir not at all,” Stone says hasty. “I have great respect for those men, given how often we’ve sailed with them and your own time with the Company. All I mean to say is that they made a quick job of it since Commodore Enjolras has gone home to France, and the other men are being transferred.”

“Yes,” Javert says, clearing his throat and calming his tone. “Well the men should know the ship well enough, at least, to make the repairs.”

“Yes sir,” Stone answers. “Fitting that Commodore Enjolras should bequeath you the ship, especially given the _Chase_ is likely for scrap now. Did you see him before he left?”

“No,” Javert lies, turning away. “Michel was never very good at goodbyes, but the left me the ship as his farewell.”

“Well he was a good man and I’m sorry you’ll have a dear friend so far away,” Stone says. “I’m sure you’ll miss his company.”

“You don’t side with the men who were disgruntled by his surrender?” Javert asks, and Stone looks surprised at the question.

“No sir,” Stone says, treading carefully. “I imagine it was difficult for him what with his son, and with the battle raging on as it was there wasn’t much option. I imagine it saved a lot of men’s lives didn’t it? Both his and ours. And I think that’s real courage.”

Javert nods, bidding farewell to Stone and going toward the captain’s cabin, pulling the keys Michel placed in his palm out of his pocket, fingers running over the edges. He unlocks the door and it creaks open, the cabin opening up before him. The sight of the room makes his stomach sink, his eyes tracing over the bare bed and the desk, devoid of all Michel’s personal effects, which built up over the years until the small space felt like a home floating upon the ocean. Javert knew the cabin nearly as well as his own for all the time he spent in it over the years. Images of Michel, Arthur, Rene, Frantz, even younger versions of himself rotate through the room and drip down the walls, more colorful than ever before. He sees a stray East India pin resting on the floor, a memory coming to mind when he touches the metal.

_And I left you something in the drawer of my desk. I bid my men to leave that part of my cabin alone when cleaning out the ship._

Only the long flat drawer is locked, and Javert puts the smaller key inside, hearing it click open.

He should have expected what he sees, but still, he didn’t anticipate.

Rene’s wooden sword.

He remembers Astra offering him the other years and years ago, remembers breaking it in half and tossing it out into the ocean. He’d forgotten all about the one he saw laying on Rene’s bed in the house in Port Royal. He puts his hand out then draws back.

“Don’t be silly, Nicholas,” he mutters to himself, reaching forward again and picking up the sword.

He examines it, seed old splinters from use and streaks of dust from the years it lay dormant, until his eyes land on the end, where he sees a familiar, childish scrawl, written in faded black ink.

  1. _Javert._



Rene’s handwriting again, just like the other one.

He drops the sword and it clatters to the desk, knocking a single sheet of paper loose from the back of the drawer.

_Dear Nicholas,_

_I found this in the house as I was gathering my belongings, and I couldn’t help but feel that like the Navigator, this should also belong to you._

_No matter what happens, the memory I will always carry of you will be of that young man who played swords with my son._

_Take care my dear friend._

_Michel_

Javert sinks down into the chair, half crumpling the paper in his hand, still not touching the sword.

Rene is gone.

Michel is gone.

His mother is gone.

He should be saying good riddance, he should be glad to be rid of anyone who would dare go anywhere near a pirate island, let alone actively participate in piracy.

But who drew them to it?

Who stood at the center of it all, mocking him all the way?

_Valjean._

_Fantine._

How long would it be until they sucked Michel down into the depths of depravity like they had Rene, like he had Javert’s own mother?

 _Oh_ , but he can make Valjean pay, and Fantine too.

 _If you can catch them_ , that voice says in his head. _You haven’t been good at that so far_.

Javert slams his fist on the desk, the sound echoing dully through the space. He hears a knock on the cabin door, stuffing the letter into his pocket, but there’s no time to stow the sword before Admiral Adams walks in.

“Captain Javert,” he says in greeting. “Perusing your new ship, I see?”

“Yes sir,” Javert says. “Though I know it quite well.”

“So you do,” Admiral Adams says. “And how are your injuries?”

“On the mend,” Javert answers. “The surgeon says it will be a few weeks before my leg heals properly, but that there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”

“Excellent,” Admiral Adams says, his eyes flitting over to the sword. “What’s this?”

“Oh,” Javert says, embarrassed. “Just something I found in Michel’s desk. An old wooden toy sword that belonged to his son.”

“Hmmm,” Admiral Adams says, eyeing the handwriting and Javert’s name. “Seems it belonged to you.”

“He used to convince me to play with him when he was young,” Javert says. “It was how I ended up his sword instructor. I suppose he must have written my name on this one.”

“You mustn’t let these memories make you soft, captain,” Admiral Adams says. “I have heard back from the governor on this matter. There is to be no pardon for the boy. Not now. If we find him, he’s meant for the noose, no questions asked. I am truly sorry. I know he meant something to you, but he has made his choices.”

“So he has,” Javert says, keeping his voice hard even as his stomach drops. He’d been right about this, and here it was, just as predicted. “I suspected it would be as such.”

The admiral hesitates before sitting down in the chair opposite him, and Javert almost snaps at him to let it alone before the impulse dies down. It is odd to sit here in Michel’s chair looking across.

“You said you crossed swords with the boy during the battle,” Admiral Adams says, slow with his words. “I imagine there came a point where you considered…dispatching him yourself.”

Javert swallows, disliking that the admiral has gotten down to such a personal point, but he has already lied to his commanding officer enough the past few days that he cannot force it another time.

“I did,” Javert says, not elaborating. “He has grown rotten, as you know. His own doing certainly, but also due to Valjean’s influence, no doubt.”

He sees Valjean’s face in his head, sees the infuriating kindness in his eyes, hears Michel call the pirates _good men_.

“Valjean is perfidious for all his benevolent nicknames,” Admiral Adams agrees. “Stepping on the name of anything honorable and spitting up on it. I imagine Michel was displeased with your tangle with his son?”

“It is complicated,” Javert offers. “But we parted as friends. He explained himself in the letter he left bequeathing me the ship well enough.”

“He did not see fit to bid you a proper farewell, but he did leave you the ship,” Admiral Adams says. “A testament to his long standing respect and affection for you, I’m sure.”

“Michel was never talented at goodbyes,” Javert says, repeating the words from earlier, the lie bitter on his tongue.

“Well we shall soon see if he gets up to any trouble, or…” Admiral Adams’s gaze lingers, holding onto the words. “Told any lies, I suspect. Perhaps he wished to save you from incrimination if he was up to anything. In any case, the ship is an asset. And I know it means a great deal to you.”

“How does Baron Travers feel on the news about Rene?” Javert asks, steering the conversation away from Michel.

“Aggrieved, obviously,” Admiral Adams says. “But he understands the matter well. I told him perhaps we could have it arranged to have the boy executed privately, away from the crowds, to spare some pain. If he doesn’t fall in the inevitable battle he’ll wage, of course.”

Javert’s fingers clench in a fist, nails digging into his palms.

“Well I shall leave you to it then,” Admiral Adams says in response to his silence. “Come see me in the morning if you would, and report on the ship’s status. And rest up.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says. “I will.”

Admiral Adams rises, turning back once more in the doorway.

“You have always been one of my most prized sailors, Captain Javert,” he says, and Javert hears something off in his tone. “Courageous, a talented strategist who inspired discipline in his men, quick-witted in battle. Obedient.” He looks over at Javert when he says the last word. “I hope that despite all these changing, difficult circumstances, that will still be the case.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, feeling the bile come up his throat, but if he tells Admiral Adams the truth he will betray Michel and he cannot he cannot he _cannot_. “It will.”

“Very good,” Admiral Adams responds, tipping his hat and walking out the door.

Javert waits until he hears the admiral’s footsteps fade away, then he looks at the wooden sword once more, shoving it off the desk with violence. It falls hard to the floor then slides across, but it does not break.

“Damn you,” Javert whispers, unsure if he’s speaking to Rene, Michel, Valjean, or Fantine, or possibly all four at once.

He takes a deep breath, shaking his head and forcing his mangled mind to settle down. He’s expected on deck, so he arranges his coat, sets his hat, and walks back above, walking around to see to some of the repairs himself, snapping at the men more than he usually might, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Then, he sees them.

Admiral Adams stands on the dock just off the _Navigator_ , joined by Baron Travers, both men standing close and speaking in hushed tones Javert cannot make out. Admiral Adams doesn’t see him, but Baron Travers looks back and meets his gaze, face like stone but cracked through with sinister resentment.

He doesn’t invite Javert into the conversation.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter! Going to give our characters some room to breath and adjust before jumping back into action, so look forward to some antics and character moments on Nassau upcoming! And well, less happy ones in Kingston for Javert, but there you go.


	28. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. Both Enjolras and Javert both have dark dreams, but while one wakes up to family, to love, the other wakes up alone. Despite everything, life continues on Nassau, Enjolras keeps recovering, and merriment ensues even as threats rest on the horizon. Michel and Astra talk; Astra reveals some things, and Michel has realizations of his own. Enjolras and Combeferre start bridging the gap with Michel. Back in Kingston, Javert overhears words between Admiral Adams and Baron Travers he wasn't meant to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really any historical notes on this one, but just a reminder that if you see a big chunk in italics, that will indicate either a dream or a flashback. There are dream sequences in this chapter, and for the first time, a lengthier flashback rather than a line or two. Just making note so as to avoid any confusion, but I hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> I do have some suggested listening for this chapter, and since people were appreciative of that last time, I'll do it again! 
> 
> Fare Thee Well / The Indigo Girls  
> All Saints / Black Sails OST  
> Hallelujah / Pentatonix cover

**Book III (Swirling up from the Sea): Part 12**

**Nassau.**

_Enjolras dreams of the beach. Port Royal, he thinks, recognizing his surroundings._

_Someone's carrying him._

_Why would..._

_He looks down, noticing he's wearing the navy blue jacket his mother always preferred, the buckle shoes he always disliked on his feet. Somehow, he is a child again_

_He looks up, seeing Javert's face above him._

_But Javert is not the young man he knew, all jet black hair and angular features he hadn't completely finished growing into. He is solid and broad-shouldered, silver streaks threaded through his long locks, the side-burns more pronounced._

_"Javert, why are you carrying me?" Enjolras asks._

_"We're going to the beach of course," Javert says, as if that makes sense. "I always carry you there."_

_"You have carried me home from the beach," Enjolras insists. "Not to it."_

_"No more questions Rene," Javert says. "You're always asking so many questions."_

_Enjolras falls silent, fidgeting in Javert's arms. As they approach the shore, he feels a drop of moisture hit his cheek._

_Javert’s crying._

_"Javert," he says. "Why are you crying?"_

_"I'm not," Javert says. "Hush, Rene," he continues, placing him on the sand. "Now help me build this sandcastle. It's a better homage to king and country than a sand-ship."_

_Enjolras does as asked, but he looks around, finding the beach deserted. He cannot see Frantz anywhere, or his father or Arthur or his mother, none of the normal players from his time in Port Royal._

_Just Javert. Just himself._

_Time slips by and he cannot tell how much passes, only that the horizon out in the distance looks faded as if an artist forgot to fill in the colors._

_"Come here a moment Rene," Javert says, gesturing him over. "I need to see if there's enough sand to your liking."_

_Enjolras obeys, but despite the sunny day and the friendly sound of Javert's voice, something shoots up his spine, leaving him with goosebumps. He goes over, feeling Javert's hand on his shoulder as he points out a facet of the castle, but then suddenly it grasps the fabric of Enjolras' jacket, pulling him back with a painful yank. Javert’s hand remains there, and Enjolras feels it tremble as if he’s barely holding himself together, as if he fears he will break apart any second, his breath coming in short gasps, loud for a man who can sneak up on anyone without their notice._

_Then, there's the feeling of cold metal against the skin of Enjolras’ throat, and he feels Javert’s hand still as it tightens over the cutlass, his breathing easing as though he’s relieved._

_"Javert, what are you doing?” Enjolras asks, his own breathing growing shallow and uncontrolled. “Let me go.”_

_"If I end it now, you will never become a pirate," Javert says, his voice cold but shattered into pieces. "You will never take sides with Valjean. You will never ruin your father's life. You will never hurt me. You will never make me weak."_

_"Javert, please," Enjolras says, pulling away, but there’s nowhere to go. “Let me go,” he repeats, voice raspy with unshed tears._

_"Quiet," Javert says, oddly gentle, and somehow, the cutlass in his hand turns into a pistol. "The sword didn't work last time, and this will hurt less. This will hurt less..." he repeats, to himself. "You won't even know."_

_“I thought we were playing,” Enjolras says, some of the tears finally falling._

_“We cannot play anymore, Rene,” Javert replies, desperation edging into his voice, and Enjolras feels him press the pistol closer. “You stopped following the rules of the game. You have to follow the rules or you’ll be crushed.”_

_Enjolras looks out toward the beach, seeing the sandcastle toppling, the water rushing up and destroying the foundation. Then somewhere near the shore he sees a face. Valjean's face, he realizes, and his voice shouting his name._

_"Rene!" he calls out, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot move forward, his feet sinking further and further into the sand._

_"He can't save you," Javert says. "But I can. I can spare you, Rene. Valjean will meet his end soon enough. He will meet justice."_

_"Javert this is not salvation," Enjolras protests, the voice that comes out higher and childish, even as the words are those of an adult. He runs his thumb across his palm, skin growing cold and clammy._

_"It won't hurt," Javert says, not hearing him. "It won't hurt."_

_Then Enjolras feels a jerk, like someone from behind pulling Javert away from him, but Javert won't let go._

_"Nicholas that's enough," Michel says, his face flickering in and out of focus. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?"_

_“Taking away your weakness,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears Javert’s voice shake again. “Taking away my weakness.”_

_But still, Javert won't let go. Before Michel can say anything else, the ground falls out from under Enjolras and he tumbles down down down into somewhere unknown._

Enjolras jolts awake, aware of the feeling of his hand in someone else's, and when he opens his eyes, he sees five faces above him; his parents, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly, all smiling but looking concerned. Well seven he supposes, if he counts Bossuet and Grantaire, who stand grinning in the doorway. It’s Courfeyrac’s hand grasping his, he realizes.

“Uh,” Enjolras says, gazing around at them all. “Is…something the matter?”

“You looked like you were having a nightmare,” Courfeyrac says, thumb running back and forth absentmindedly across Enjolras’ hand.

“I had an unpleasant dream,” Enjolras says, looking around. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re all here to greet me so…cheerily this morning.”

“We’re all here to stare at you like a carnival attraction because Joly announced that he was allowing you out of bed this morning,” Grantaire says, and Joly turns around, glaring at him, annoyed that he didn’t get to announce the news himself.

“For breakfast at least,” Joly says, sitting on the edge of his bed. “We’ll see how you do, but everyone’s gathered for the occasion, and Valjean’s given both the crews the day off, so I’m sure the rest of the men are off cavorting around the island, glad of the respite.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Enjolras protests, but he’s internally pleased. “I know there’s a good deal of work to be done.”

“Of course we did,” Bossuet says, stepping into the room and tossing an arm around Combeferre’s shoulders. “We’ll let Combeferre sit next to you so he can fret as much as he likes.”

“Oh be quiet,” Combeferre snarks, but he fails at hiding his smile.

“Getting nearly as bad as Joly himself,” Courfeyrac says, a cat-like grin on his face, blocking Joly’s retaliatory swat with his forearm.

“So were you,” Combeferre says, looking at Courfeyrac over the edge of his spectacles.

“Boys,” Astra chides, chuckling, putting a hand on Courfeyrac’s arm before he can reply. “How about you go see to the table setting and Michel and I will help Rene dress, hmm?”

“Only the trousers and the loose white shirt I’ve recommended,” Joly says. “I don’t want any undue pressure on any of the wounds.”

“I will do everything as you say Joly,” Astra says, and Joly brightens.

With that his friends go downstairs, Combeferre casting one look back, smiling at Enjolras, who returns it before turning back toward his parents. It’s the first time he’s been in a room alone with just the two of them, and a part of him wonders if he’s having some sort of vision. But they’re there and smiling at each other, if a bit awkwardly, but still real.

“Are you all right darling?” Astra asks, sitting down next to him after he shifts, putting his feet on the floor.

“Just a rather disconcerting dream,” Enjolras says, eyes flickering over to his father before meeting his mother’s gaze again. “A product of the laudanum, no doubt, and any remaining dregs of fever.”

Astra puts a hand on his back and Enjolras feels the tension in his shoulders melt off. Astra notices, running her hand soothingly up and down.

“Do you want to tell us about it?” Michel asks, sitting down now as well, and Enjolras finds himself sandwiched between his parents, but his father doesn’t touch him just yet.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras says, gesturing with his good hand. “I’m not a boy, dreams shouldn’t disturb me so.”

“I’ve seen men far older than you run onto the deck in the middle of the night in an attempt to escape their nightmares,” Michel says, firm. “I heard you say _Javert, please_ , as I came in the room. It was about Nicholas, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Enjolras admits, uncomfortable at the images the words draw forth. “I dreamt he was trying to kill me again. Only I wasn’t an adult, I was a boy building sandcastles on the beach. He said if he got rid of me then, I’d never become a pirate or join Valjean. That I’d never hurt him or make him weak. That I would never…” he looks at his father, uneasy. “That I would never ruin your life.”

“Rene,” Michel says, hesitating and looking for permission before laying his hand on his son’s back, joined with his wife’s. “You didn’t ruin my life. What Javert did that day, thinking he could save you and me by ending your life, it was not right, and I did not agree with it.”

“I know,” Enjolras says, meeting his father’s eyes. “He was very much as he was that day; trembling, holding back tears and yet so convinced of his rightness. I have no desire to die, would of course do much to protect my life, even as I accept that it could be taken from me any moment during a battle such as that,” Enjolras says, feeling his mother tense beside him. “But Javert doing what he did, it was not the same and I…I am having trouble forgetting it.”

“I have no doubt,” Astra says, leaning over and kissing his cheek. “You loved each other. It is not the same as other battles you have fought.”

“Is there a way to stop him?” Enjolras asks, directing the question to his father. “You know him best, surely there is a way to save him from himself? Despite it all, I do not want him to destroy himself. I know he is perfectly capable of his own cruelty and his own choices, but the idea of what my grandfather may perpetuate or put into his head in your absence disturbs me. He already holds the threat of telling Admiral Adams that Javert is Romani over his head, and Javert’s been taught for so long to be ashamed of that. And if that information gets out it may even endanger his life. At the very least his sanity, if it loses him everything he’s built. And that bodes ill for him and for us all.”

“I hope there is a way to save him,” Michel says, and for the first time in years, Enjolras finds himself trusting his father’s words. “But I admit, I am not sure. There is only so much we can do. He has to make the final choice himself.”

“Valjean believes it possible,” Enjolras replies. “Particularly with you here now.  And Javert respects Valjean, I think without realizing it, and he holds you above all. And his mother is here.”

“And you,” Michel adds.

“I fear his relationship with me is irreparable no matter that a part of me will always care about him,” Enjolras says, the darkness in his words sounding foreign in his own mouth. “I am not sure he can ever forgive what I am, and I will not apologize for it. But even if that’s true, I do not wish ill on him. Frantz reminded me of that during the battle.”

“On the contrary I think his love for you is so great that he cannot bear it,” Michel says. “And he would rid himself of the sentiment rather than make sense of his love for someone he believes goes against all of his morals.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, half lost in his own thoughts. “Perhaps you’re right. But that might also now apply to you.”

“Yes,” Michel says, his tone similar. “That’s true.”

There’s a lull, and Enjolras watches his mother look back and forth between them.

“Let’s get you dressed and go downstairs, shall we?” she says, looking hopeful. “I fear we cannot solve the conundrum that is Nicholas Javert in one morning, and this is a happy occasion.”

“So it is,” Enjolras agrees, feeling some of the nausea that overcame him after the dream dissipating. His eyes linger on his parents, something popping into his head abruptly.

“Father,” he asks as Michel gathers his clothes from the chest beneath his bed. “It just occurred to me, but what happened with Mrs. Hudson when you left so abruptly? She worked for us for so long.”

“Oh,” Michel says, voice warm. “I told her I was leaving, and she expressed her desire to return to England to her sister, who is ill. So I paid for her passage out, I believe the ship was due to leave a few weeks after I did, so she should be departing soon.”

“Good,” Enjolras answers, remembering the kindly woman who let them him hide in her quarters from his grandfather. “I’m glad to hear that.”

He dresses, minding all the bandages and allowing his parents to assist him with the shirt, a sharp pain pinching in the area with the bullet wound as he slides his arms the sleeve, but it’s less than the day before, and he’s glad at the progress. He heads down the stairs, his legs unsure after laying inert so often, his father’s hand steadying him when he falters at the rail. The dining area is visible from the landing, and as he steps down a great cheer arises from the people gathered at the table, and Enjolras feels a full grin spread across his face, chasing the dream away.

“You conquered the stairs!” Bahorel calls out. “Good show, my friend, do come join us.”

Enjolras steps forward, spotting the seat for him next to Combferre as promised, Courfeyrac on the other side. Valjean and Fantine sit on either end of the table, both smiling at him. Cosette sits between Marius and Gavroche, with Eponine on the other side of her brother. Joly sits next to Bahorel, who has an arm slung around his shoulders, and Prouvaire in between Grantaire and Bossuet, waving at him. Feuilly raises his mug of coffee in Enjolras’ direction from his place near Valjean and to the right of Bossuet, who tugs fondly on one of his dreadlocks. Chantal sits near Fantine, with, Enjolras realizes, Tiena, who offers him a tiny smile. The sight of them all makes something burst in Enjolras’ chest, and his grin widens ever further until his face aches. He casts a look back at his parents, feeling happy tears brim in his eyes, though they don’t quite fall, then he steps toward his place at the table, both of them following behind. He takes his seat between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Astra taking a seat on Chantal’s other side, and Michel next to Courfeyrac.

“Thank you all for putting aside all the work I know needs doing to greet me,” Enjolras says, feeling a rare blush tint his cheeks. “It means a great deal.”

“We are a family,” Valjean says, reaching across and grasping Enjolras’ hand, his voice deep and full of the usual reassurance. “It is only right we should set aside time to celebrate one of our captain’s recoveries.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras repeats, soaking up the presence of this family they’ve built.

“Now eat!” Joly exclaims, pushing a plate of food toward Enjolras with glee. “Then perhaps we can let you rest in the sitting room for a bit, there’s a chair there that would suit your arm well I think.”

Enjolras picks up his fork, smiling into his breakfast.

* * *

**Nassau.**

On his second week in Nassau, Michel awakes to the sound of voices. He stretches, having slept deeply on the sofa, which he’s become accustomed to over his stay. He sits up, recognizing Astra’s voice, and Fantine’s and Chantal’s he thinks, along with a fourth he isn’t sure of, but sounds somehow familiar. They drift toward him from the small dining area next to the kitchen, and he wonders if he slept late. He picks his pocket watch up from atop his satchel, looking at the time. Eight in the morning, he sees, later than he normally awakens, but not late by any stretch, yet the house is quiet aside from the voices. He rises, going over and sorting through his clothes, which now rest in a chest borrowed from Rene’s friend Bossuet, who chuckled when Michel realized he’d in fact run into Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire in the Kingston jail after the latter stowed away on his ship.

 _All’s well that ends well_ , Bossuet had said when Michel awkwardly apologized. _I believe in fresh starts, after all._

When asked about breaking out of the cell, Bossuet smiled wider, amusement in his eyes.

 _Ah_ , he said. _That was Grantaire. Leverage, you know._

Michel laughed, and he finds he’s smiling at the memory and the friendliness in in Bossuet’s eyes as he sorts through the few sets of clothes he brought with him. He selects a pair of tan breeches, a white shirt and his most comfortable jacket in a shade of hunter green, scooping them up and seizing his boots with his free hand, slipping into the small room off the hall where the more communal water basin sits, dressing quickly and splashing water over his face, tying his hair in a queue before heading toward the source of the noise in the dining area. He finds Astra, Fantine, and Chantal joined by Tiena, all four women looking up when he enters.

“Good morning ladies,” he says, feeling awkward, hovering around the table and not sitting down. “The house is quiet this morning, is everyone asleep?”

“Rene, still,” Fantine answers, her tone less angry than the night he arrived, studying him like he’s a puzzle she cannot quite piece together. “Though that’s expected. But the work on the ships continues, and given the heat over the past few days Valjean wanted to get to it earlier today.”

“Ah,” Michel says, and Astra takes him by the hand, pulling him down into the chair next to her, impatient with his hovering.

“Eat something, Michel,” she says, pushing some toast toward him. She shares a look with Fantine and the other two women before continuing. “I was thinking you and I might take a walk this morning?”

“Oh,” Michel says, picking up a piece of the toast, sensing he’s been a topic of discussion. “All right. Certainly.”

There’s a creak in the floorboards above them, and Astra pops up from her chair, a happiness in her eyes that reminds Michel of the days when she watched little Rene run across the beach.

“I think Rene’s stirring,” she says. “I’ll go check on him and then we’ll take that walk?”

Michel nods, eyes drifting over to Chantal, who sits close to Tiena, an accounts book laying open in front of them.

“Going over your books?” Michel asks. “I don’t envy you that, I was terrible at it, which is why I was thankful for my book-keepers aboard.”

“Chantal is excellent at it,” Tiena says. “Cleaned up all mine when she started working for me.”

“It’s nothing,” Chantal says, waving her off with a shy smile. “My mother taught me when I was a girl, that’s all. And then…” she looks up at Michel, expression tight. “Well. Arthur taught me a bit.”

“He was always much more patient with those matters than I was,” Michel says, trying to smile at her, and though she returns the gesture, it falters after a few seconds. “More patient, generally, I fear.”

“So he said, when he told me how you met in boarding school,” Chantal says, and Michel sees her trying to smile again. “I think he said he had to pull you away from one of the bullies.”

“I was a bit rash,” Michel says, knowing exactly the memory Chantal speaks of, Arthur dashing in and yanking him out from a boy who was much bigger than he, auburn hair tumbling out of its tie in his efforts.  “As a boy.”

Chantal holds his eyes, opening her mouth before breaking off, clearing her throat and looking back at Fantine.

“I think I might head down to the harbor and see if anyone needs any sustenance while they work,” she says. “Fantine, you said you needed to go anyway?”

“I did,” Fantine says, looking over at Tiena, who remains seated. “Just let me locate my hat and we can be off.”

Chantal tells Tiena she’ll see her at the marketplace later on to relieve the workers they’ve hired, and the two women go, leaving Tiena alone with Michel.

 “It sounds like your business is successful,” Michel says, feeling Javert’s absence keenly as he gazes at Tiena, who has his eyes exactly. “What all do you do there?”

“I make clothes,” Tiena answers. “Chantal makes jewelry and tailors pieces for people. We’ve done well enough to hire two Romani women like myself to work so we don’t have to be at the marketplace all the time. They live in sort of boarding house we run out of an abandoned house, a place for the slaves some of the pirates on the island free to stay. That of course is not a money making venture.”

“How were you able to set it up?” Michel asks, genuinely curious.

“Some of my own money,” Tiena tells him. “Valjean and Fantine donated some of their shares of prize money. So did Rene, actually, once he was a captain and received two shares. Most of the people on their crews did, along with other like-minded pirates on the island.”

Michel nods, looking down at his hands, the silence creeping through the room and twisting around him in ropes until finally, Tiena asks him the inevitable question.

“You saw my son before you left, I’ve been told?”

“I did,” Michel says. “I couldn’t leave without doing so.”

“But he would not come?”

“No,” Michel says, sad. “But I maintain hope that he might.”

“You were the most constant part of his life for a long time,” Tiena says. “I can imagine how he must feel in your absence. You were more of a father to him than his own was, you know. An older brother. A friend.” She pauses, looking him directly in the eyes now. “And you can forgive him? For nearly killing your boy?”

“At first I was so angry I couldn’t even fathom what to think,” Michel admits. “But he…it is not an excuse, but Rene and I both agreed that something was not right with Nicholas. Part of me is still angry, but I also recognize my part in his ending up like this, and he means a great deal to me, has been one of my truest friends, my most loyal sailor. That night on the beach, bequeathing him the _Navigator_ and leaving him there knowing they might send him after me was torturous and I…I don’t know.”

“He often leaves his loved ones with that feeling,” Tiena says, and Michel hears the same bitterness in her voice he’s heard in Rene’s, the pain of people who Javert pushed away. Javert didn’t do that to him; Michel walked away instead, and that brought with it a different sort of ache. “And I believe that you and I, along with your son, are the people who love him best. If only he would remember that.”

“I bid him to do the same,” Michel says. “But he seemed frightened of it.”

“He always has been,” Tiena says. “If people love him and he loves them in return, they can make him weak. They can injure his reputation. And as is the case now, they can make him choose.”

“Tiena, I…” Michel tries. “I am sorry. For the things I did to make Nicholas reach deeper into that well of hating himself and his heritage. It was unjust of me to judge your people that way, to tell him he was an exception to a rule. I wish I’d talked to him more firmly about the night he sent you away.”

“You were a different man then,” Tiena says. “I’m sure you thought you were protecting him. Even among the more open minded disdain for my people remains common.”

“He loves you,” Michel says, feeling helpless but still certain of his words.

“I know,” Tiena says. “But sometimes I fear his love for you and I, his love for Rene, his fascination with Valjean…I fear that will make him more dangerous than we realize for how much he tries to tell himself it isn’t true, how much he will try to rid himself of the sentiment. Sometimes I fear he will not survive it.”

Her words make Michel’s stomach curdle, but Astra appears at the bottom of the stairs, cutting off anything else he might have said.

“Well, enjoy your walk,” Tiena says, and Michel’s sees her press Astra’s hand tightly, smiling at her before going out the front door before them, no doubt heading to check on her shop.

They pass Cosette on their way out, taking leave of the work on the ship for her shift sitting with Rene.

“We’ll just be a bit,” Astra tells her. “Then we can take over.”

“Take as long as you need,” Cosette says, lifting up a book in her hands. “The longer you’re gone, the more of Shakespeare’s poems I can make Rene listen to me read.” She looks at Michel with a knowing expression, and Michel feels for the second time that morning that everyone else knows something he does not.

Michel follows Astra out the door, and they weave their way across on the short walk to the shore. They find a shady spot under a palm tree just beyond where the ocean laps up on the shore, sitting down. Astra removes her shoes and sticks her toes in the sand, wearing breeches today rather than the long skirts she’s grown fond of.

 “Off with those then,” Astra says, pointing at his boots. “When was the last time you let your feet feel the sand, I wonder?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Michel says, feeling a smile creep onto his face, doing as she asks, and to his surprise the sand feels cool beneath his feet. “I assume you brought me here for a reason?”

“I did,” Astra says, some of the glee at seeing him barefoot vanishing from her face. “In light of you being here, I would like to be honest with you about something. I didn’t want another situation like when I told you the truth about the boys running away. I know you were angry then, that you were upset. And I understand why. But I do not care to be the subject of that sort of anger from you again. I have never been frightened of you Michel, not until that day.”

“I know,” Michel says, lowering his voice. “I fear you ended up the target of all my tangled emotions at once that day, Astra. I’m sorry for it. And I appreciate your being honest with me. Besides, I am not sure anything could shock me, anymore. I’m on a pirate island after all.”

“So you are,” Astra says, some of the tension in her face easing, but her shoulders sit taught. “You know, I’m sure that Valjean and Fantine escaped the _Orion_ in Port Royal? From Javert?”

“I could never forget it,” Michel says, slow, part of him suspecting where she’s going with this, remembering all the looks he caught between Astra, Valjean, and Fantine. “When I returned a few days later it was the talk of the town and suddenly Javert was transferred to my crew. There was conjecture someone helped them hide. That someone got them out.”

“Yes,” Astra says, looking him straight in the eyes. “There was.”

“It was you,” Michel says, the truth dawning on him, the answer to a question he never quite asked aloud. “You helped them.”

“I did,” She confirms. “I hid them. Then I found them passage.”

“That’s why the looks I saw between you,” Michel clarifies. “Why you seemed to know so much about them, why you felt comfortable here so quickly.” He pauses, tilting his head. “That’s why the newspapers Javert told me about. You suspected Rene was with them, too.”

He shakes his head, shutting his eyes for a moment as the facts pour in, pieces he held for so long but couldn’t make fit finally falling together.

“Are you angry?” she asks.

“No,” Michel answers, even if part of him wishes he was, because anger is simpler. “It is simply that you had all of these secrets, parts of your life I never knew about, and it makes me wonder when I stopped knowing anything about you. You were making the right choices all along, and I was just making all the wrong ones. You were brave enough to help people. I was just hurting them.”

“Michel,” Astra says, kinder than Michel can bear. “I am not always right. I have been cold and cutting and withholding from you at times when I should not have, and it didn’t help matters.”

“You are generous to say so,” Michel says, looking over at her. “But a few bad tempers on your part do not amount to the wrongs I have done you, done our family, the things I’ve participated in. I…” he chokes on his voice. “I _do_ love you, Astra.”

“I know,” Astra says, reaching out and putting the edges of her fingertips on his shoulder. “I love you too, you know. It was why I was so angry at you. Because I knew the man whose eyes sparkled when he looked at his newborn son. The man who would offer me comfort in the early years when we moved to Jamaica and I was homesick. The man who used to sit with Frantz in the weeks after his father died, making sure he slept.”

Michel clasps Astra’s fingers, pulling them toward him and pressing a light kiss upon the knuckles. He looks at her, his love for her hitting him full in the chest. It's been years since he did more than give his wife a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, a force of habit more than anything else. But now he leans forward, pressing his lips to hers, acting on an impulse he's not sure is correct. She returns the kiss, but lightly, something sad in the touch of their lips. When they were young and he would kiss her she always placed a hand against the center of his chest, grasping his shirt, awkward and determined all at once, as if trying to convince herself of her passion as much as him, and he was never sure what that meant.

But now the hand is absent, and he pulls back, searching her face, which only looks wistful, betraying nothing.

"I'm sorry," he says, feeling foolish. "I only...I don't know. I suppose I missed kissing you, I missed the time when I...when I felt like your husband."

"It's all right," Astra says. "You don't need to be sorry. Michel I..." she trails off.

"Astra," Michel asks, gentle at seeing the fear in her face. "Was there someone? Before you married me?"

Astra hesitates, something resolute forming in her eyes. He sees her fiddling with the gold bracelet she always wears, still on her arm all the way in Nassau.

"Yes," she says in a whisper.

"Did he give you that bracelet?" Michel inquires. "I see you wear it all the time, and I know it isn't from me. I thought maybe it was from your mother, at first."

Astra surveys him, and he notices her hands shaking, her breaths hitched and shallow.

"Astra," Michel says, laying one hand carefully atop hers. "I'm not angry, you don't need to be afraid."

"Someone did give me this," Astra says. “But…it doesn’t matter, Michel.” Tears spring to her eyes, startling him. The sound of her voice tells him it _does_ matter.

“Astra, darling,” Michel says, taking her hands carefully in his, and the endearment draws her gaze, though she still looks frightened. “It’s all right you don’t have to…”

"It wasn’t a he," Astra blurts, voice cut in half, going high and cracking in the middle. There's no shame in her eyes, but the fear remains.

"Oh," Michel says, drawing out the first letter, and yet much like the story about Valjean and Fantine, Michel finds his surprise underwhelming, like something he’d known for years without realizing. “I…”

“I should go,” Astra says, trying to get up, but Michel keeps hold of her hands.

“Astra wait,” Michel says, a great number of things falling into place in his mind; why even in the early years she never loved him in the way he wished for, why her kisses, even when she gave them, never lingered, but he realizes now, that she loved him as best she could, in the way that she could, and he'd never made even that easy. “Don’t go.”

She stops resisting, looking back at him in surprise.

"You are not disgusted?" Astra asks.

Michel remembers boys in boarding school hidden in dark corners, remembers seeing one such pair pulled apart by the headmaster. He remembers the headmaster’s disgusted face as he pulled the two boys away, muttering something about sin. But as he looks at Astra’s face, sees the love in her eyes, he finds he can’t say those words, and doesn’t want to say them, because how could that be sin?

He thinks of the two men on the beach again, that feeling of intrigue and shame all mixed together as one striking him, a faded memory he cannot quite make out unburying itself in the back of his brain.

"No," Michel says, a question lingering in his voice. "I have been taught the immorality of such love all my life, but I...well I have been wrong about a great deal. And you have been right.”

"I could never find a way to tell you."

"It is likely best you didn't," Michel admits. "The person I was then wouldn't have borne it the same way. I hate to say that, but it's only true. I…” he hesitates, sure this is a sore spot. “I’m certain your father was cruel to you over it.”

"My father thought it was a defect in the way I processed friendship, at first," Astra says, anger slicing into her voice. "But I've had enough close friends of my own sex that I did not feel romantically inclined towards to know the difference between types of feeling. I knew what I felt about Imogen."

“Imogen?” Michel asks. “That was her name?”

“Yes,” Astra says, a fond, melancholy smile slipping onto her lips. “But when he discovered us he ended it and he…” she looks up at him, wincing. “Well he made sure I was married to someone who wouldn’t have heard the rumors. Couldn’t have a man knowing of my attraction to my own sex, or he might not marry me. Unless he thought he could _fix_ me, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Michel breathes, all his anger at his father in law building up into a ball of pure hatred in the pit of his stomach for all the years he put it off. “And I wanted to sail, and I was French, so I wouldn’t have heard the London gossip. I’m sorry he separated you from her, Astra.”

 “It was inevitable, wasn’t it?” she asks, bitterness on the tip of her tongue. “Society cannot bear the idea of two men who love each other in that way, so I’m afraid women have even less of a chance,” Astra continues. “Perhaps because it sounds so unnatural to them, but to me, it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Astra’s words jiggle the unclear memory loose in Michel’s brain, and drops it in front of his eyes with full color, transporting him back to Port Royal, to a day he’d tried to understand but never could, so he’d pushed it far away to the back of his mind, summoning it only on very dark nights when he found the pain of missing Arthur grown too much.

_“They’re the best of friends already,” Arthur says from his place next to Michel on the beach. It’s a rare moment of quiet between just the two of them, away from East India responsibilities and family. “And it’s only been two weeks. It was right, bringing Frantz here. Though I know Chantal must miss him terribly.”_

_“And he misses her too, I imagine,” Michel says, looking over at Arthur’s face before darting toward the horizon, stars littered across the edge. “I can imagine how Astra would feel about being separated from Rene. But Frantz will have access to the best tutors here. To a whole host of things with your presence.”_

_Arthur huffs slightly. “He should have access to those things in St. Dominque. I should be able to bring both of them here without struggle or judgement, I should be able to…”_

_Marry her, is what Arthur doesn’t say._

_“I know you miss Chantal,” Michel says, and Arthur looks over at him, a sad smile on his face, still as smitten with Chantal as he was in the beginning. “But think of all the time you’ll get to spend with Frantz. And Chantal is set to visit every few months, is she not?”_

_“She is,” Arthur says, following Michel’s gaze up to the stars. “Where she can. I insisted on paying for it, but she runs her business out of their home there, and sometimes she has deadlines to meet on her commissions. But as often as she can, yes. So she can see Frantz. So she can see me.”_

_They sit in silence for a moment before Arthur shifts, stretching out across the sand and giving little care for his clothing. He crosses his arms behind his head, resting them on Michel’s leg._

_“Arthur,” Michel chides. “What are you doing?”_

_“Using you as a pillow, Michel,” Arthur says._

_“Someone will see us,” Michel argues, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks that he doesn’t understand. He and Arthur have always been easy with each other in this way, their friendship full of that kind of thoughtless tactile affection common between friends, so he’s not certain why he’s chiding his friend now._

_“What does that matter?” Arthur asks, raising his eyes and looking at Michel. “We used to sit like this in boarding school and read all the time.”_

_“We aren’t boys, Arthur,” Michel says, hearing a sternness in his voice he didn’t bargain for, unsure of why exactly he’s protesting. “We’re officers.”_

_“All right, mon ami,” Arthur says, starting to sit up, sincerely contrite, but confused. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”_

_“No, it’s all right,” Michel says, pressing him back down, still feeling that heat in his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m just a bit on edge, I suppose. There’s been a great deal of stress lately, from my father in law and the Company. I feel as if I have few private moments, these days. Like I’m always being watched.”_

_“Hmmm,” Arthur says, settling back down, disquiet in his eyes. “Well you know I don’t care for your father in law Michel. I have no idea how Astra came from him, to be quite honest with you. She’s a much better person than he is.”_

_“Arthur,” Michel chides again, but he’s chuckling softly now._

_“He is very stern with Rene,” Arthur argues. “And rude to his daughter, who deserves better. And I know he dislikes me and by extension now, Frantz. I only hope that he doesn’t…” Arthur trails off, eyes flicking away from Michel._

_“Affect my opinion of and affection for you?” Michel asks, soft. “He couldn’t, Arthur. Please don’t worry about that. You’re my dearest friend.”_

_Michel looks down, meeting Arthur’s eyes, watching the smile spread across his face, starlight threading through his auburn-brown hair. He feels a particular warmth in his chest; it is not new that he feels warmth when he looks at Arthur and this is not more exactly, but different, and he’s not sure what to make of the sensation. Only, it’s not the first time he’s felt it; there were moments when they were boys when he felt it too, but hadn’t known what it was, and now is no exception. It bursts and pushes against his chest, sending pinpricks up and down his skin. He’s felt this with Astra too, and this makes his thoughts grow muddled. He shakes his head, trying to clear them._

_“And you mine,” Arthur says, reaching up and tugging on a lock of Michel’s hair, fond. “I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me now, it’s been too long.”_

_“So it has,” Michel answers. Before he really even thinks about it he leans a bit closer, running a quick hand over Arthur’s cheek. For a fleeting moment he feels an impulse to kiss his friend as he might kiss Astra, but he pulls back again quickly, and Arthur doesn’t notice._

_He shakes his head a second time, chasing the feeling away._

Michel’s the one who takes shallow breaths now, his hand shaking as he reaches into his jacket, pulling out his pocket watch and running his thumb over the inscription.

_Fair winds and a following sea._

"The pocket watch Arthur gave you," Astra says, very soft, and not pressing for the memory. "When Rene was born."

“I uh…” Michel says, swiping at the dampness gathering around his eyes, telling himself he doesn’t know what he’s feeling even as Astra’s admission makes the clarity of his own feelings strike him.  

_You were in love…_

_Arthur…_

_Astra…_

The voice in his head tangles in knots, and it cannot finish a sentence.

“Well,” he says pulling words out. “It’s been interesting for me, even in this short time to see the sorts of unconventional relationships here in Nassau. At first I assumed Valjean and Fantine were well…I don’t know what to call it other than pirate-married.”

Astra laughs, and the sound chases the light back into her eyes. “Pirate-married. You’ll have to suggest that as a term.”

Michel laughs, but his stomach still aches, though it feels like a strange combination of pain and relief all at once.

“Well you know what I mean,” he protests. “But they are partners, have built this family out of odds and ends, Valjean adopted Fantine’s daughter and Fantine his nephew, really, they are undeniably close, and yet they are not inclined toward each other in that way. Fantine has her beau in Bahorel and Valjean seems content the way he is. I have not seen that between men and women before.”

“Society’s doing, I expect,” Astra grumbles. “Saying the opposite sex cannot be friends. You know, there actually is a phrase for pirate marriage, but between two men. It’s called _matelotage_. Rene was telling me of it, you’ll have to ask him about it.”

“My word,” Michel says, intrigued. “That is…that is very forward moving of them. Are uh…Joly and Bossuet tied together in that way?”

“I believe so,” Astra says. “Though there is a woman in their relationship as well. Musichetta.”

“The woman from the bookshop,” Michel says, remembering. “Though I never expected there to be a bookshop on Nassau. Well. That is. Hmm.” He sits a moment, taking in the information, a thought occurring to him. “Say, does Rene have anyone?”

Astra smiles at the mention of their son, and Michel realizes again that even if she let Rene go, she missed him just as much as he did. “No,” she replies, shaking her head. “I asked him. He said while he loves his friends and his family very much, he is not inclined toward romance nor toward, as he put it ‘the particular physical intimacies that some of my friends so enjoy’” she says. “Meanwhile Auden was on his bed composing some sort of love note to a woman on the island with a grin on his face, so it takes all kinds, I imagine.”

“Rene is very direct, isn’t he?” Michel asks, chuckling as he imagines those words coming out of his son’s mouth. “Well, he was always very adamant about not wanting marriage, wasn’t he? I never took it seriously then. Does he know? About Imogen?”

“I think he suspects my inclinations, somehow,” Astra says. “He has a knack of knowing things before I tell him, but not specifically yet. I have no qualms telling him, but he’s been ill and there is time. But he’s known about my helping Valjean and Fantine for a long time, obviously.”

Rene’s eyes appear in Michel’s head, so blue and quietly intense, and somehow containing wisps of the future. A question burgeons in his mind, and as it does, his hands start trembling again.

“I…” he says, looking over at Astra again, and she looks back, expression open. “Do you…do you suppose it’s possible to be in love with two people at once?”

“I think so,” she says, only half-catching his meaning. “We were just discussing Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta.”

“Not quite like that,” Michel says, and Astra releases a breath, a soft ‘oh’ emerging from her lips. “Separately. I uh…well….I don’t know.”

“I think I understand,” Astra says, but she does him the service of not articulating exactly what she understands. “But yes,” she says, giving him a smile. “I think so.”

Astra hesitates a moment, a decision forming on her face. She reaches her arm out, wrapping it tightly around Michel's waist. Feeling shoots through him. Still, he thinks, he is in love with her, even if now he knows why she does not return it in the same fashion. But there is love in her touch still, an intimacy they have not shared together in years. She rests her head on his shoulder and he reaches up, brushing a hand across her hair.

"You quite like wearing those breeches then?" he asks.

She looks back up at him, amused. "I am not opposed to dresses or the skirts Fantine has introduced me too," she says. "But these are comfortable, and I do rather like having a choice."

“I am glad to be your friend again,” Michel says after a beat. “Your husband-friend?”

“Husband-friend and pirate-married,” Astra teases. “You are full of excellent phrasing this morning.”

“Oh,” Michel says, jokingly pulling away, drawing out her laughter, and he wraps an arm around her waist in return.

“But I am too,” Astra says, lifting her head and looking at him. “Thank you. For listening. For understanding.”

“Thank you for being honest with me,” he says, his own realization still making his mind spin, but other parts feel more settled in place. “What do you say we go see our son?”

“Yes,” Astra agrees, and Michel gets up from the sand, helping her up, and she doesn’t let go of his hand. “He’s been a fairly good patient so far, but he’s getting restless now and I am having flashbacks to his childhood, I fear.”

Michel laughs aloud, the sound echoing back at him.

Somewhere in the air, he hears his own words in his head, together with Arthur’s.

_You are a better man than me, I’m afraid._

_Oh hush._

The warmth he felt that day on the beach returns, and this time, he doesn’t press it down but lets it rest, hoping that he’s on the path to being that man Arthur always believed he could be.

* * *

**Nassau. A month after Michel’s arrival.**

A month after Michel arrives in Nassau, the crews of the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_ host a bonfire on the beach.

Joly clears Enjolras’ attendance, and just as dusk falls Enjolras finds himself sitting on a blanket laid upon the sand. He tosses his boots aside, folding and piece of the blanket over and pushing his toes into the sand, skin soaking in the damp against the warm evening. He watches in contented silence as some of the men build the fire under Grantaire’s direction, his ears perking up as Simmons and MacDouglas tune their violins, gesturing at the other musicians, getting them set up in their places.

A few minutes later his mother takes a place on the sand next to him, still elegant even when she’s sitting cross-legged on the beach, looking less formal than he thinks he’s ever seen her.

"Well this is quite a gathering," she says. "Looks like some other crews are joining in."

"It's the free rum," Enjolras says, a sly smile on his lips. "It's limited on board, so the men will have their fill now. The women are a bit more sensible about amounts. No surprise to you, I'm sure."

Astra laughs, the starlight from above reflected in her eyes as it takes the place of the sun, the sky varying shades of blue as day fades. She takes his newly healed hand, holding it in her own.

"Mother," he asks, something popping into his head. "I saw you writing a letter earlier, and I was wondering if you'd mind my asking who it was to? You don’t have to answer I just thought I would ask, if you were comfortable.”

“Oh,” Astra says, surprised but still looking happy. “Well, I was writing to someone I knew long ago. Imogen was her name.”

“Did she give you that bracelet?” Enjolras asks, gentle with his words. He’d long suspected something different about his mother, but as a child he couldn’t find the words to ask, and since she’s been here there hasn’t been the opportunity. But he remembers the fascination in her words when she asked him about Joly and Bossuet, the way she’d fiddled with that gold bracelet she always wears.

“She did,” Astra says, thumb running carefully over the new scar on his palm, and he understands the meaning in her words.

“You were in love with her.”

“Yes I was,” Astra says, smiling at him, feeling in every syllable. “If you’d like, tomorrow I can tell you about her.”

“I’d like that,” Enjolras says. “I’m glad you’re writing to her.”

“I’m not sure I’ll hear back, or even if I possess the correct address,” Astra says. “The only one I have is the family home she lived in, and who knows who might open it. I am not even sure if she’s alive, and I must be careful with the contents.”

“You should try,” Enjolras says, firm. “I think you would regret it if you did not.”

“Yes, I think I would,” Astra says. “How did you suspect this of me, if I might ask? I…I explained to your father, and I said I thought you already knew, somehow.”

“I’m not certain,” Enjolras admits. “A son’s instinct, perhaps?”

“A powerful thing,” Astra says, nodding. “But ah but here comes Auden looking mischievous.”

“I am _always_ mischievous Madam Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, winking.

“Astra, Auden,” she corrects.

“Right sorry old habit,” Courfeyrac says, holding up a jug. “Rene, you must thank me profusely as I bribed the barkeep to give me this jug for the use of toting your favorite wine here since you have an unconscionable dislike of rum.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, raising an eyebrow. “Though you know I cannot drink all of this.”

“Well I’m sure your mother would partake,” Courfeyrac says. “And here comes Frantz, though he prefers dryer alcohol, but he might do you a service.”

“I’m sure someone will take the rest off my hands,” Enjolras says, accepting the spare mug Courfeyrac hands over.

The dancing starts behind them, the notes from the violins curling up and joining with the smoke from the fire, yet Courfeyrac hovers near them as Combeferre sits down on the other side of Astra.

“Go dance,” Enjolras says, gesturing him away. “I’ll be perfectly fine here.”

“Are you sure?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Quite certain,” Enjolras affirms. “I can see Marius dancing with Cosette from here and he looks as if he could use your tutelage.”

“Good lord,” Courfeyrac mutters, looking over. “You’re right. No matter how hard I try, he is not light on his feet. I’ll be back.”

Combeferre chuckles, and Courfeyrac grazes Enjolras’s shoulder with his hand before making his way over to Cosette and Marius. They both grin as Courfeyrac approaches, Cosette’s curls bouncing up and down as she claps in excitement. She spots Enjolras, Combeferre, and Astra, waving at them with enthusiasm.

“Looks like a good show of merriment already,” Combeferre says, taking a sip of his rum. A short distance away, Bossuet, Prouvaire, and Grantaire spin around, kicking up sand, grains of it flying toward Gavroche, Joly, and Feuilly, who retaliate immediately.

“And well deserved,” Enjolras says, pouring himself some wine. “I’m glad to see everyone so relaxed.”

As if drawn over by his words, Enjolras sees Fantine and Bahorel approach, hands linked and Bahorel grinning wide.

“I see Courfeyrac brought your wine,” Bahorel says to Enjolras as they come up. “Good good.” He turns to Astra, grin growing wider. “If you’d permit, madam, Fantine wanted you to come dance with us but was suddenly too overcome by shyness to ask,” he says, teasing her.

“Oh stop,” Fantine says, flicking his arm, but her eyes still smile.

“I fear the dancing skills I possess might not serve me particularly well here,” Astra says, looking out at the crowd full of pirates and other Nassau inhabitants dancing a bit wildly in pairs and trios and foursomes.

“That’s all right,” Fantine says, reaching out her free hand to Astra. “We can teach you. Bahorel taught me, as it happens.”

“All right,” Astra agrees, taking both Fantine and Bahorel’s hands, allowing them to pull her up off the sand. “I suppose I should give it a try.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Enjolras says. “My mother is an excellent dancer.”

“Like you, I’d wager,” Fantine says, winking at him. “I’ve seen you Rene, on a few rare occasions.”

“Yes if you were not confined to this spot at dear Joly’s orders you and Combeferre both would be up with us, but I won’t steal his company away.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, trying not to smile. “Perhaps you can convince Valjean to dance in my place.”

“One of my insidious plans for the evening,” Fantine says. “We’ll be back.”

“She looks happy,” Combeferre comments as Fantine and Bahorel take Astra toward the firelight, the latter pulling Feuilly in from the edge of the crowd, taking no argument.

“She does,” Enjolras says, feeling his heart lighten. “It’s nice to see.”

They’re only alone for a few minutes when Enjolras sees his father approach, stepping away from a conversation with Valjean. He walks over, hands behind his back, looking shy, but hopeful, his eyes lingering on the vacated space between Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Would you mind if I sat?” he asks, voice soft.

“Not at all,” Combeferre says, sharing a glance with Enjolras.

“Wine?” Enjolras asks as his father sits, knees brushing against each of theirs. “It’s sweet, which if I recall correctly, you prefer.”

“I do, thank you,” Michel says, watching as the stream of red liquid hits the mug. “Lively gathering.”

“Stay away from Prouvaire after he’s had his third round of rum,” Combeferre says, smiling a fraction at Michel. “He saves his best ghost stories for them to scare Bahorel, and if I recall, you used to jump a bit when my father told them.”

“Good memory, Frantz,” Michel says, quirking a single eyebrow. “To tell you the truth when I arrived here and walked in the dark from the interior I remembered those stories. Scared myself a bit. I think Arthur would have been pleased to know that.”

Enjolras tilts his head, noticing his father’s voice tremble as he lands on the word _Arthur_ ; it doesn’t sound sad, but more like a feeling solidifying.

“I think you’re right,” Combeferre says, amusement in his voice. “I think he and Prouvaire would have had a time outdoing each other.”

“I think so too,” Enjolras says, eyes roving around the growing group, watching Joly and Eponine clink mugs with some of the men from Sam Bellamy’s crew, who’ve joined them.

Bahorel approaches them again, sitting down on the sand with a huff.

“Fantine and Astra left me to go dance one with Chantal and Tiena, who they managed to convince,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “How very rude.”

“I’m sure she still loves you, Bahorel,” Combeferre says, dry. “Besides I believe that’s her rouge smeared on your cheek in any case unless you’ve been kissing someone else.”

“Enough of your sass,” Bahorel says, laughing as he whacks Combeferre in the arm. “Feuilly abandoned me at the first chance so he could go hide with Valjean, but I see Cosette’s taken care of that.”

“I’m sure Prouvaire would dance with you,” Enjolras says, reaching across Combeferre and patting Bahorel on the shoulder.

“Good point,” Bahorel says, looking over at Michel. “Enjoying the party, Monsieur Enjolras?”

“Hmmm,” Michel says, a life in his eyes Enjolras hasn’t seen in a long time. “I am, yes. Though I’ve been told to stay away from your friend Prouvaire after his third glass of rum.”

Bahorel laughs merrily at that, the sound bouncing up into the air and cascading back down.

“He usually starts talking about Davy Jones then if the mood is right,” Bahorel says.

As if drawn to them by Bahorel’s words Prouvaire sweeps by, seizing Bahorel by the hands and planting kisses on Enjolras and Combeferre’s cheeks as he goes past, winking at Michel as he pulls Bahorel away for more dancing. Enjolras watches as they find a place among the four previously mentioned women, everyone laughing as Fantine places a firm kiss on Bahorel’s lips, making him blush.

“Your friends are charming,” Michel observes.

“Our friends are swiftly approaching drunk,” Combeferre says, but Enjolras sees the fond light brimming in his eyes. “But yes, they are.”

Out of habit Enjolras wraps his arms around his knees, his upper arm shouting at him in protest.

“Ah,” he says softly, moving his arm back. “Suppose I can’t sit like that.”

“Your arm is bothering you?” Michel asks.

“Both the sword wounds are closed and scarring over,” Enjolras answers. “The bullet wound is close but even if the skin is marginally less ugly the muscle is still behind. Can’t move it as normal yet.”

“May I see?” Michel asks, and Enjolras hears a memory from long ago in his words.

_Let me see your nose._

_It’s fine._

_René, son, please, just let me see.  It’s still bleeding._

_Don’t touch me._

Enjolras hesitates then nods, and Combeferre looks on, a protective gleam in his eyes but a  melancholy smile edging onto his face. Michel eases the shirt off Enjolras’ shoulder, examining the wound; bruising blooms around the edges of the suture, though the wound itself is generally less of a furious red than a week ago, new skin creeping across the round hole.

“Nearly closed up,” Michel says, ghosting his thumb over the area. “Joly’s done a truly admirable job.”

“Rene’s been a good patient,” Combeferre teases. “Hopefully that continues as we move into the rehabilitation of his arm.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, shooting him a look. “I know how serious this is, I will certainly always behave if it means I don’t lose a limb.”

“It is my prerogative to tease you,” Combeferre says. “I have been since we were eight years old.”

Michel laughs softly at that, and Enjolras looks up at the sound of footsteps, seeing Valjean approaching them.

“Having a nice time gentlemen?” Valjean asks, mirth in his face as he sits down on Enjolras’ other side.

“It’s a very merry gathering,” Michel says, eyes roving over the growing amount of pirates. “Lifts the spirits, I think.”

“Setting aside time for this kind of enjoyment is important,” Valjean says. “This very group of people taught me just how much.”

“No one convinced you to dance?” Enjolras asks.

“Oh, I’m certain Fantine or Cosette will have their way before the night ends,” Valjean says, his laugh a deep, comforting rumble. “Jahni’s been pulled out twice already despite protests he prefers to watch.”

“He’s a better dancer than he’ll admit,” Combeferre says. “I, however, am decidedly not. My eloquence doesn’t extend quite so far.”

They all laugh at that, and Enjolras lays back on the blanket, stretching out and listening to the murmur of their conversation, the crackling of the fire, and the music of the violins. The stars paint themselves twinkling and countless across the sky, and he feels his eyes flutter closed. A gentle thumb with rough skin he recognizes as Valjean’s runs affectionately across his cheek, and he’s so content, feels so safe, that he doesn’t flinch or jump in surprise.

“Rene,” he whispers. “I think you should perhaps let your father and Frantz take you back to the house. “It’s been quite a night for someone whose been largely confined for a few weeks. I’ll tell the others where you’ve gone.”

Enjolras’ opens his eyes and meets Valjean’s, and he remembers once again how much Valjean means to him, how honored he is to serve as his consort captain. He squeezes Valjean’s hand for a brief moment, feeling the significance of sitting between two men who have both been fathers to him, whether by blood or not.

He sits up, feeling the heaviness of sleep settling into his bones. They bid Valjean farewell and he watches them leave, waving at them as they go, eyes lingering on Michel. Enjolras walks steadily but Combeferre slips an arm around his waist anyway. Michel walks beside them, not intruding, but Combeferre meets Enjolras’ eyes and at a nod from him, tugs on Michel’s sleeve, indicating he should mimic the action. Michel complies, his arm brushing against Combeferre’s as he places it loosely around Enjolras’ waist. The warm, salty breeze blows against their faces, and Enjolras breathes in it deep.

“I am glad to have this new memory of the three of us walking together,” Combeferre says, voice slightly fractured in the silence, speaking to the shared thought in all of their minds of the night twelve years ago as they walked home from the _Navigator_ , as they walked from the slaves hidden in the hold and toward Michel’s threats of boarding school and separation .

“So am I,” Michel replies, a husky quality to his voice. “And I…I am proud of both of you. For what you’ve built here. For what you’ve done.”

“Thank you for coming to see it,” Enjolras says. He looks at his father, thinking all the weeks in Nassau rendered his face less severe and his eyes bright like they were when he swung him up onto his shoulders during his boyhood, pointing at the stars on nights like this.

Michel smiles at him, wrapping his arm tighter around Enjolras’ waist, and behind him, Enjolras feels Michel grasp Combeferre’s sleeve.

They walk on toward home, the stars lighting their way.

* * *

**Kingston.**

_For the third night in a row, Javert dreams of the gallows._

_It’s always the same dream, always the same beginning and the same end. Always a slate gray sky and always the jeers of the crowd throwing rotten fruits and vegetables at Rene as he walks alone toward his death._

_Every night in his dream, they executed the others sometime before, leaving Rene to face the gallows by himself, and though he’s not broken-Javert’s honestly not sure if it’s possible-Rene looks as close as he could get to it, but still stands tall, never letting them see his fear._

_Each night, Javert wonders if Rene’s afraid at all, his face a mask of emotional mystery etched in marble._

_Except for his eyes._

_Even when he awakes Javert cannot forget Rene’s eyes._

_They’re blue and full of lightning, striking Javert with a blast of cold electricity. He glares at Javert before he drops, and Javert always turns away, so he never sees the end._

_The end he cannot bear. The end the law and authority dictates._

_Michel! Javert always shouts, desperate to find his friend, his mentor. Every night he grabs a man’s shoulder, thinking it’s Michel, and every night when that man turns around he morphs into Valjean, every inch of his gaze filled with judgement._

He wakes up once again, covered in an icy sweat, throwing his covers off and sitting on the side of his bed, taking deep breaths. He hasn’t had the same nightmare in a row like this since he was separated from his mother, and he resents not only the weakness of his mind but also that he cannot get decent rest. Sleep won’t come, so he hastily dresses, his leg still aching and not quite healed even as the wound closes up. He reaches his hand toward the thin slice on his back, scarring already, remembering the gentleness in Michel’s touch as he bandaged the wound.

Javert shakes his head and makes his way toward his office so he might at least get some work done in his restlessness, unable to think about Michel for long. But even he cannot chase away the gaping hole of the man’s absence. Even after Rene and Frantz left, Michel was there. He’d been at Michel’s side even longer than he was with his mother as a child.

And now Michel was gone. Gone to Nassau. Gone to _Valjean’s_ house.

 _Gone to Rene,_ a softer voice says. _You know he had to._

“I don’t know any such thing,” Javert mutters aloud, walking faster even if it makes his leg twinge.

He quiets his step as he reaches the building near the docks containing most of the naval offices, pausing when he hears voices coming from behind Admiral Adams’ partially closed door.

He pulls out his pocket watch, looking at the time; earlier than he realized, just past eleven, his nightmare apparently striking early tonight. He’s no business listening in on their conversation, he tells himself, but stops again when he hears his own name.

“And you still want to send Captain Javert after them?” Baron Travers asks, no small amount of disgust in his voice. “Given what you know now?”

Javert stomach sinks. _What do they know?_

“He knows Valjean and Fantine’s movements, and no doubt your grandson’s movements better than anyone else,” Admiral Adams says. “And these egregious errors aside, he has long been a talented sailor and a disciplined captain. He has earned this last chance, and it is also a great deal more efficient than bringing another captain up to speed. Too many officers jump too soon when it comes to pirates. Captain Javert knows how to be patient.”

 _Walk away_ , Javert tells himself. _You shouldn’t be listening._

But he cannot move, placing a hand over his mouth and quelling the sound of his hindered breathing.

“Well,” Baron Travers says, a bit chastened. “I admit, once I learned of his background I thought he might show us his true colors much sooner. So perhaps you’re right. But born a thieving gypsy, _always_ a thieving gypsy, admiral. But make use of him while you will, perhaps he’ll serve the purpose you hope.”

It takes every ounce of self-control Javert has to avoid melting onto the floor.

He _knows_. Admiral Adams _knows_.

Something burns in the pit of Javert’s stomach, nausea creeping up up up and searing his throat until he swallows it back down.

“Yes, well,” Admiral Adams says, sounding slightly uncomfortable. “I suppose Javert did not owe me the truth of his background, despite the obvious character risks it holds. He appears to have worked hard to leave it behind him. But I am giving him this last chance to retain his station. I would be more lenient perhaps, if he’d told me the truth about seeing Michel before he left. He can say all he likes he did not, but he did not look surprised enough when he received the news about the Navigator. He never lies, so it was easy to catch him in one when he decided to start.”

“My dishonorable son in law would never leave without bidding him goodbye regardless,” Baron Travers replies. “And we’ll just see if Michel went back to France or not.”

“You suspect he went to Nassau?” Admiral Adams asks.

“I have my suspicions, and I imagine the evidence will follow soon enough,” Baron Travers answers. “And what will be done, if Javert fails? He’ll be sent to the gallows? It would be understandable given the battle, his lies to you about Michel, and his lying about his background.”

“No,” Admiral Adams says, that uncomfortable sound in his voice again, but Javert barely deciphers it for how loud his heart beats in his ears. “But he will be removed from service, the admiralty will demand it, I imagine, even with his record. Perhaps exiled out of the region if he makes any move toward helping the pirates. But we shall see how he does. I will sail with him, when they inevitably show themselves again.”

“We shall indeed,” Baron Travers says, tone dark. “But mark me, admiral, prepare to be disappointed. No matter his qualities, Javert has always been weak where Michel and my grandson and that filthy Combeferre boy were concerned. I would do the latter in myself, if given the chance. And I suspect Javert has been more lenient with that Valjean that you know, or he would have caught him by now.”

Javert cannot bear to hear anymore, controlling himself enough to walk away quietly and abandoning the plan for work in his office. He breaks into a run until he finds a grove of palm trees, sliding down onto the ground and leaning against one, resting his head in his hands.

 _Breath_ , he tells himself. _You can succeed. This is not the end._

 _But they know_ , the second voice says. _And once they heard the word Romani, nothing will ever be the same. Then there’s the lie about Michel. The lie you told boldly to your superior’s face._

_You can catch them._

_They’re going to find out about Michel, they’ll know he’s in Nassau. They’ll know you knew where he was going._

_But you can catch them. You can fix this._

_….do you want to catch them?_

_They’ll die if you do._

_They’ll die._

He shakes his head violently until his hair slips out of the tie, all the words and emotions crashing and banging against each other in his brain, until one thing makes itself heard over the noise.

Michel’s voice.

_The door to Nassau is open, Nicholas._

“No,” he whispers.

Rene’s voice.

_I’d rather die side by side with my friends in a noose than by the sword of a man who used to carry me home from the beach. That’s love, Javert. This isn’t._

“Stop,” he mumbles.

His mother’s voice.

_Good men are not without flaw. Good men are not irreproachable. But good men make choices that might be contrary to the status quo. And that is what you have always failed to grasp. Wanting to serve your society is not a bad thing, but never questioning who and what you serve? That is an egregious error, I’m afraid. But then, I know Rene and Valjean both have told you so. I am only repeating it_

“Stop stop stop,” he pleads.

Valjean’s voice.

_Because we hold the belief that people aren’t bound forever with the stations to which they were born._

“Quiet,” he says, voice growing louder.

Miche’s voice again.

_Come with me._

 “I can’t!” Javert shouts. “I _won’t_.”

His voice stands alone in the expanse of the night sky, and when he looks up, there’s not a star in sight.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet some of you are wondering if Michel is ever going to talk properly to Chantal, and I promise, he will! But she needs time, and I wanted to give her that. 
> 
> I also am not sure how many of you suspected the reveal about Michel in this chapter or not, but I hope you enjoyed it, if that's the right word :D Michel has some thinking to do.


	29. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel and Chantal have a moment. Later, three months after the battle, Enjolras' arm is healing, and both crews celebrate the repairs of the ships, happy to sail again. Valjean and Michel talk, an understanding growing between them. At Enjolras' encouragement, Michel goes out on his first pirate voyage after Prouvaire receives intelligence about a Spanish slave ship that also carries gold among its cargo. Afterward, he shares a moment with Combeferre and Enjolras. Javert gets word that the Liberte and the Misericorde have been sighted, and he starts truly unraveling. Back on Nassau, the pirates learn that Javert, the Admiral, and Baron Travers are leagues away from the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes on this chapter!
> 
> According to my research Orion is most visible November through February, and then starts to fade, which comes up here. Betelgeuse and Rigel are the two brightest stars in the constellation, which also comes up. 
> 
> I also bring back Valjean's partially native background- his mother was Carib, or Kalinago, and that's mentioned here. They tended to live in the group of islands called the Lesser Antilles, and a lot of them were killed by European diseases or aggression, though more of them remained than the Arawaks. 
> 
> I think that's all the historical notes! I'm adding it to the tags, but also just a warning here for suicidal ideation on the part of one character. No actual suicide! But the ideation deserves a warning nevertheless. I'm sure you...don't have to guess who it applies to, probably.

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 13**

**Nassau.**

Chantal spots Michel sitting alone on the beach near the surf, water running up over his toes, and he looks lost in the push and pull of the waves. She’s surprised at seeing him so casual, his bare feet resting in the wet sand, his jacket missing and his shirt collar open, though his hair’s still pulled back and smoothed from his face. Upon first glance, she nearly mistakes him for his son. She studies him, hesitating, then steps forward.

“Michel?” she asks, the word tasting strange on her tongue, but he is no longer _Captain_ or _Commodore,_ and though society doesn’t see them as equals, Nassau does, and she takes confidence in that.

“Oh,” Michel says, surprised as he turns toward her, but his expression remains friendly. “Chantal. Hello.”

“Hello,” she says, unsure. “May I sit?”

“Oh,” Michel repeats. “Certainly. It’s a bit uh. Damp down here.”

“That’s all right,” Chantal says, offering a smile even as her chest tightens. “I’m used to it.”

Chantal lifts her skirts, sitting down a little apart from him, pulling her knees up toward her chest and wrapping her arms around them, looking out at the horizon. The practiced words don’t come, and she’s surprised at hearing Michel’s voice cut into the quiet.

“You are good to come seek me out,” Michel whispers. “I should have done it myself, but I could never find the words. I couldn’t make myself, and I won’t offer any excuses other than my own shame for the wrongs I have done you. My own anxieties.”

“For barely knowing you, Michel, you have been a strong force in my life,” Chantal begins, voice stronger than she expects. “You were the dearest friend to the man I loved. You played adopted father to my son. I don’t entirely know what to say to you, I only know that we cannot leave things the way they are.”

“I fully agree,” Michel says. “Chantal I…it sounds empty to say I am sorry for what I have done to you. For not putting effort into finding you once Arthur died and it seemed clear you’d been sold into the trade. For the suffering I know you underwent. For the way I treated Frantz. I…” his voice breaks. “I do love him. Very much.”

“I know you do,” Chantal says, knowing he’s genuine. “You are here atoning for the way you treated him, you are listening, which is all I could really ask of you. Frantz never stopped loving you, I think. And I respect his choice to try and rebuild his relationship with you, even if I had my own worries when you arrived.”

“He is better than I deserve and I say that with all sincerity,” Michel says, and Chantal feels the words she’s most afraid to say bubbling up in her throat.

“Michel I…may I ask you something?” Chantal says.

“You may,” Michel says, meeting her eyes. “Whatever you would like.”

“Did you think Arthur’s relationship with me a mistake?” Chantal asks, hands grasping her skirts. “Did you think he would have been better off had it never happened?”

Michel starts, biting his lip as a temporary flash of defensiveness flares in his eyes before it dies, replaced again with shame.

“At first, yes,” he admits, and the words strike Chantal in the chest even if she expected them. “It had less to do with you and more to do with the ways I knew society would punish him for transgressing. And at the time I was too frightened to fight against those tides, to stray from anything other than the structure I knew. He told me how much he loved you, and yet I was frustrated he would throw away convention in a way that harmed him. But then I met Frantz, and I found myself loving him, because how could I not? Then that day I met you, and I saw for myself the look in Arthur’s eyes when they looked at you and I didn’t know what to think anymore. I saw how happy you made each other, what a good woman you were, yet I knew society would scorn all of you for it. I could never agree with anyone who told him to simply financially support you and cut ties, because I had a child of my own, a family. But now? No. I could never think it was a mistake.”

“I appreciate the honesty,” Chantal says. “Truly.”

“Despite my worries Arthur never even considered ceasing contact with you,” Michel says, a slight desperation in his tone. “Please know that.”

“I know,” Chantal says, some warmth edging into her voice.

“The way he used to talk about you,” Michel says, fondness in his tone. “The light in his eyes. He loved you so much, and you changed his outlook on so many things. I wish he was here, now. Because here on Nassau, you could be happy together.”

“Yes,” Chantal says, hearing her voice thicken, tears springing to her eyes, because happy as she is, the pang of missing Arthur, the pang of what could have been, still lingers. “I miss him very much and I know you miss him. We share that.”

“We fought before he was struck by that mast,” Michel admits, regret in his eyes. “We fought over the slave trade. Fought over everything he was right about. And he pushed me out of the way of that mast anyway, even if he knew he might not get out of the way in time. If anyone deserves to be sitting here now, it was him. It _should_ have been him.”

“Perhaps he wanted to make sure you had your chance to change,” Chantal says, and when she looks over, she realizes tears are falling from Michel’s eyes, just as they are from hers. “He knew you could do it.”

“Yes,” Michel says, and to her surprise, he doesn’t wipe the tears away or try to hide them. “He always had a knack for believing in the best of me, stubborn as I was in holding onto my own ideas about justice, about society.” He looks over at her, and among the sadness in his eyes she sees the same glimmer from the day she first met him, that deep question he perhaps didn’t give credence, that question of the nature of his feelings for Arthur.

“I know you must have been through hell,” Michel continues. “I took part enough in the slave trade to know the conditions. I suppose I kept fooling myself that I could be humane about it, but the institution itself is…”

“Inhumane,” Chantal finishes. “Michel, to be quite honest, I’m still angry with you. I do not know if I can ever fully forgive you, and yet I also want to trust you. To be friends. I know all of that seems contradictory.”

“No I…” Michel says. “I understand. I would like to know you better, too. And you have made Astra so happy with your friendship, you know. You and Fantine and Tiena.”

“She is a lovely person to know,” Chantal says, smiling out of reflex at the mention of her friends. “We have so many shared people in common,” Chantal says. “And we both meant a great deal to Arthur, and…well. May I be direct about something?”

Michel nods, apprehensive as if he suspects what she’s about to say.

“Sometimes I think that we both,” she pauses, delicate. “Shared a particular sort of feeling for Arthur.”

Chantal winces slightly at the flash of frantic denial in his eyes, a kind of anger that she’s said this, but then it dies, replaced with an odd relief.

“He was my dearest friend,” Michel argues, words coming out before his mind catches up.

“He undoubtedly was,” Chantal says. “And friendships like that are special. Vital. Full of unquestionable love. Like Rene and Frantz, as an obvious example. But I think something else may have existed alongside that friendship. Stop me, if you wish, I don’t wish to push the matter.”

“No,” Michel says, closing his eyes, pausing as he breathes the sea air in deep, then exhales, opening them again, scanning the horizon. “I think I may…” the words come out in small gasps, slow. “I think I may have been…” he halts, and he cannot meet her eyes yet. “ _In_ love with Arthur.”

Chantal lets the words sit for a few seconds, taking them in herself.

“He was easy to fall in love with,” she says, touching his arm briefly before drawing back. “I do understand and have learned enough about different relationships these past years, so you need not fear my judgement for it.”

“I have not made full sense of it,” Michel says, meeting her gaze again. “I have been taught such feelings are wrong, and I also felt these things about Astra but I…I do not think I can deny them about Arthur, either. They arose before, but I did not recognize them, or would not give them credence.” He looks at her again, suddenly alarmed. “I would not have interfered, if I had, I….”

“I know,” Chantal says, reassuring. “I am trying to share this same feeling with you. Not insist you rid yourself of it.”

“Thank you,” Michel says, and she hears the tears in his voice again, but he wipes his eyes. He reaches a hand out, placing it very lightly over hers, and Chantal feels Arthur’s presence sitting between them almost tangible, his laughter breathing into the breeze. “I’m sorry Chantal. For everything I’ve done. That you lost him because he chose to save me.”

In response, Chantal grips his hand back, holding on tight.

* * *

**Nassau.**

Valjean feels a headache blooming behind his right eye, worry brimming in his chest, overfull.

“You are not fully recovered,” Valjean argues, looking pointedly at Enjolras. “I cannot imagine going out without you.”

“Joly has cleared me to sail as long as I continue doing the assigned exercises and stay back from any battles for the first few weeks,” Enjolras argues. “I am stiff and there is a bit of pain, but the wound is healed and the weakness from the infection has gone.”

“Will you stay back?” Valjean asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, his voice firm. “I know I can be stubborn about it, but I would like my arm to return as much to normal as possible, so I will not risk it until Joly indicates it is all right.”

"According to my sources word has also spread that we defeated East India and the Navy. That they surrendered to us," Prouvaire says, then turns to Michel, looking awkward. "No offense meant to your skills, Monsieur Enjolras."

"None taken Prouvaire," Michel says. "Keep going."

"Anyhow what I'm saying is that we should take advantage of that, as we are less likely to be resisted," Prouvaire continues. "Also some people apparently think Enjolras is dead, and we should take advantage of that as well."

"How is that an advantage?" Enjolras asks.

"To see the Avenging Angel rise from the dead?" Prouvaire says, turning to him. "Come now Enjolras surely you must see the advantage in that. It would scare superstitious sailors senseless and we could take a ship without firing a shot."

"That is a compelling point," Enjolras admits, and Valjean nearly laughs at the expression on his face.

“All compelling points,” Fantine says, sitting at Valjean’s right. He turns, tilting his head at her.

“You are always betraying me,” he grumbles.

“Oh but you are dramatic,” she says, shoving affectionately at his shoulder. “But the fact of the matter is, Valjean, it’s been three months since we took a prize, given everything that’s happened. And some of the men are starting to run out of money now and we could not support all of them for long. We need to go back out there.”

“Several of the men on the _Liberte_ have come to either Enjolras or myself to say they were running low from the last haul before our attentions were understandably diverted elsewheere,” Courfeyrac pops in from next to Enjolras, and Combeferre nods silently beside him. “Besides, I know you’d agree that we cannot stop doing what we’re doing out of fear of Javert or Baron Travers or anyone.”

“No,” Valjean says, a proud smile inching onto his face. “No, you are correct about that Auden. I am just a bit shy after everything that’s happened, I suppose. It has been a difficult time.”

Out of the corner of his eye Valjean sees Michel tense, knowing his part in all of this, but he sees Enjolras’ fingers brush briefly against his shoulder in hesitant comfort. Valjean feels Fantine’s hand on his own shoulder, warm and reassuring as always, restoring pieces of his faith when they feel faded.

“I have gotten word of a ship that might be a decent target to start off with,” Prouvaire says, smiling when Valjean looks up at him. “A mid-sized Spanish merchant ship known for transporting small groups of slaves but also carries some gold for the Spanish government largely in secret. So we could accomplish two things at once; release some slaves and pay the men.”

“A worthy goal,” Enjolras says, and Valjean nods in agreement.

“We should tell the men,” Valjean says. “We could set sail in a week or so, if that suits?”

“Perfect,” Fantine says, an excitement rushing into her eyes. “Auden and I will make sure the word’s spread.”

 “I’ll go talk to my source about where the ship was last spotted,” Prouvaire says, getting up as well. “I believe they make port in Trinidad.”

“I’ll take a look at the charts,” Combeferre adds.

They all exit after a moment, leaving Valjean, Enjolras, and Michel alone. Michel makes to rise, clearly thinking he should leave the two captains alone, looking uncomfortable.

“Stay a moment if you would, Michel,” Valjean says, the first name still sounding strange to his own ears. “I have something I’d like to give you.”

Michel tilts his head, curious, but Enjolras just gazes at him, a small smile playing at his lips as his hand reaches for his aching arm. Valjean goes over to the desk in the corner of the room, opening the drawer and pulling out a cutlass, contained in a fine leather sheath, _East India Trading Company_ etched into the material.

“I think it’s time you had this back,” Valjean says, and Michel looks at him, eyes wide, so many layers of distrust and propriety faded over the past two months and leaving more of the real man in their wake.

“I gave that to you sir,” Michel says, respectful. “As a gesture.”

“I think you showing up here and listening to us, mending relationships was a larger gesture,” Valjean replies, handing the sword out to him. “If you are to sail with us you will need a proper weapon, and the spare cutlass you brought with you looks as if it’s on its last leg. That is, if you do plan to sail with us. I suppose we hadn’t asked if you’d like to stay on the island or come along.”

“I…” Michel says, slowly accepting the cutlass, and it takes him a few seconds to wrap his fingers around the sheath. “I had considered it, but only if Rene agrees to it.”

“Rene?” Valjean asks.

Enjolras studies his father for a moment and it strikes Valjean how similar their eyes are.

“If you would like to I am certainly open to the idea,” Enjolras says, a hesitant trust in his face. “Your experience could only be helpful, I’m sure. Though I know it might be difficult for you to…”

“Take orders from you or your officers?” Michel finishes. “It is a strange feeling perhaps, but I have learned your system of ship governance and I came here to atone. To start anew. So you may trust, my boy, that I will do as ordered should a battle occur.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, nodding, clasping his father’s shoulder briefly.

“I suppose I’ll need a new sheath for this,” Michel says, eyes roving over the East India markings. “Thank you for giving this back to me, Valjean. You are a generous man. Truly.”

“I do my best to help others,” Valjean says, feeling his face warm. “That is all.”

“And too humble as usual,” Enjolras says, and Valjean shakes his head, a chuckle on his lips. “Thank you, for hearing us out. I do understand the concerns.”

“We must be strategic about our actions,” Valjean says. “But you all always remind me we must keep strong in the face of threats. We are pirates, after all.”

“So we are,” Enjolras says, a rare smirk on his face. “So we are.”

A few days later, a raucous cheer goes up as some of the men bust bottles of wine across the main masts of the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ , red liquid running down the wood in celebration of the finished repairs and setting sail on the new voyage in two days. Valjean watches some of the men rally around Enjolras, slinging their arms around his shoulders and chattering in his ear, not a few jokes about the return of the Avenging Angel flying around the air. He spots Michel near the bow of the _Liberte_ , then makes his way off the _Misericorde_ and across the gangplank toward him, grasping a few men’s hands as he approaches. Three cheers go up for Bossuet, Feuilly, and his own boatswain Tiano for their leadership in repairing the two ships, and he cannot help but laugh to himself at the pleased embarrassment on Feuilly’s face as he passes.

“Everyone is quite cheered,” Michel says when Valjean reaches him. “The ships seem to be in good shape, given the damage.”

“We have excellent crews on our hands,” Valjean replies, eyes scanning the crowd, watching as Fantine and Cosette grasp hands, spinning around in a circle, joy in their faces as Marius and Eponine look on, smiling. He notices Michel’s eyes land on Bahorel and Prouvaire, an odd mix of amusement and apprehension on his face. “Something the matter?”

“Through a series of unforeseen events Bahorel and Prouvaire there found out about my uh…jumpiness at ghost stories,” Michel says. “Given I’ll be sailing with them I should probably expect to be ambushed with some on a very dark night, I imagine.”

“No doubt,” Valjean says, a deep, rumbling laughter puncturing his words. “My condolences for your sleep, but I think that also means they’ve accepted you into the fold.”

“Perhaps so,” Michel answers, a smile inching onto his face. He looks around until his eyes fall on Valjean’s forearm, where the sleeve of his coat has ridden up revealing the old EITC brand on his forearm from his time as a convict.

“I remember witnessing them branding a convict on a ship when I first joined the Company as a young man freshly married to Astra,” Michel says, words soaked in memory and sounding far off. “I felt disgusted by it, but I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t allow convicts on my ship, nor impressment of young boys, but I didn’t speak out against it, either. At least not until rather far down the line, and I should have started sooner. I’m sorry, Valjean, for the treatment you must have endured on that East India ship.”

“It changed who I was for a time,” Valjean says. “Sometimes I feel that man within me, still. But then I also never would have met Fantine, never would have become a pirate, possibly would have just been in prison for longer with no chance of escape, if I’d never been sent to that ship. So I try to remember that. I was bitter, for a time, but love, the work we do here, did a great deal to wash that out.”

“Despite all my time with the Company, I think it took me a long while to realize the extent of the kind of slavery they participated in; they didn’t just transport slaves to plantations, but they took on prisoners, who had no recourse.” Michel shakes his head. “There would have been a time when I couldn’t imagine myself speaking like this but after learning more about all of you, seeing what you do…it’s changed everything. And you are kind sir, for letting me lodge with you, for letting me sail with you now. After everything. Besides all that you have acted as a father not only to your own adopted daughter and nephew, but to Rene and Frantz and Auden as well.”

“I would not deny you a chance to atone,” Valjean says. “We all deserve that, if we seek it.”

“A kind view,” Michel says, nodding. “Where are you from, if I might ask?”

“Barbados,” Valjean answers, eyes flitting over toward Feuilly. “My father was born into slavery in the Caribbean, and he was a rare one who managed a successful escape when he was a boy. My mother was a native Carib, or Kalinago. Seems nearly a rarity, these days. My sister and all her children but Jahni died in a hurricane, but many I knew died of…”

“European diseases,” Michel replies, surprising Valjean. “Among other, more direct aggressions. I remember learning about the Arawaks. I suppose I looked at colonization as bringing civilization to a place that required it, bringing it to...”

“Savages?” Valjean asks, finishing his sentence.

“Yes,” Michel says, shame in his tone. “But then, who I am to decide that having a different way of life is savagery? For all my education and money and world travel, _I_ have acted savagely in transporting human beings. In not condemning the near eradication of native people in this region. To be frank, things like that did bother me, and not so far deep down, but it was so ingrained in me to obey. To follow orders, to accept that society was the way it was and there must be a reason, that I convinced myself it was justice. That it was progress.”

“You are not alone there,” Valjean says, sensing something on the tip of Michel’s tongue. “But I am glad you have come around to a different way of thinking. I am sincere when I say I know it is not so easy. Our experiences are very different, but I do know what it’s like to try and pry one’s mind open to something new.”

“Perhaps you are the wrong person with whom to mention Javert,” Michel says. “But he and Rene have both said that you always seemed to see the ability to change in him. And I suppose l wondered why?”

“Hmmm,” Valjean says, memories of Javert tumbling around in his head, until the night they stood on the beach in Nassau comes into focus, the sky so dark above them it made the water beyond look forbidding.

_Hostis humani generis. The enemies of all mankind. That’s what you and your lot have been branded by every civilized nation. And the day will come when all of this will come toppling down._

Javert’s words smear across his mind like ink on paper, and as he looks back over at Michel he feels the familiar frustration at Javert bubbling up again, mixed with that undeniable empathy he felt for a man, who by all accounts, should have been on their side of this fight. But society’s wheels turn and turn and turn and affect them all in different ways, at different levels and Javert thought he could remove himself entirely from those wheels and everyone caught in them.

But the worry, the love in Michel Enjolras’ tells a different story.

“I just sensed it in him,” Valjean says. “There was always a question in his eyes, behind the stone he likes to think his heart wrapped in. The way his voice would soften when he mentioned you or Rene or Frantz. And no matter his diligence in coming after Fantine and myself, after our crews, he was still always giving voice to those questions, wondering why I did things like let him go. And I suppose I could never quite rid myself of the image of that young man I saw on the deck of that East India ship. We butted heads even then, when he had power over me, but I saw the way he looked at the captain when he gave lashes to an officer. I saw that he cared. Even if he’d deny it.”

“Yes,” Michel nods, wistful. “I know that young man too. But I also know the man he has become, and in some respects due to my influence. And I cannot underestimate him. It is danger to all of us. A danger to him, even.”

“So it is,” Valjean says, reaching out a hand and grasping Michel’s forearm uncertainly, and the other man doesn’t shy away. “But there is reason to hope, I think. I suppose I always felt that by all rights, given his background, Javert should have sympathy for our side of matters. I suppose I could never quite let go of that idea.” Valjean looks at Michel, who nods in agreement, distress in his eyes. “If you go find Rene,” he says, letting go. “I’m sure he and Frantz would be glad to show you the nooks and crannies of the ship. You might enjoy it.”

Michel smiles at him, hand brushing across Valjean’s shoulder as he walks away, and he’s replaces with Fantine just a few seconds later.

“We may make a pirate out of that man yet,” Fantine says, bumping Valjean with her hip.

“So we might,” Valjean murmurs. “So we might.”

“I suppose now might be the time to tell you Astra’s asked if she might sail with us?” Fantine asks.

“You are going to shorten my life significantly from stress,” Valjean remarks. “But I also won’t ask you to talk her out of it because I assume that’s fruitless.”

“You know me well,” Fantine chuckles. “I’m going to teach her a thing or two with the dirk, and she’s completely willing to do as we say when called for. I think she just doesn’t want to miss anything.”

“I can understand that,” Valjean says, eyes drifting over to where Astra stands with Cosette and Eponine, chattering, looking natural aboard the ship. “I just don’t want any harm to come to her because we weren’t careful. I know the inherent dangers in what we do, but one must protect their family as best they can.”

Fantine doesn’t respond verbally, but instead wraps an arm around his waist, and even after all these years, Valjean marvels at the easiness between them, built upon years of trust, trust which he never thought he’d share with anyone again everything that happened in his earlier life.

Yet here he was, surrounded by a sprawling family he’s ever so grateful to call his own.

And now, they were going back out to sea, and into the unknown ahead.

* * *

**The Caribbean Sea near the coast of Trinidad.**

“ _La tempête rouge_ ,” Michel hears Prouvaire mutter. “Well that’s bad luck.”

“For who?” Michel inquires, grasping the rail tighter.

It’s not a potential battle he fears; he’s used to that. But up until now, he has merely aided pirates. Now he’s not just living on their island, he’s becoming a pirate in practice.

But he also has no desire to turn back. He’s afraid, but it also feels _right_.

“Them, of course,” Prouvaire says. “They’re the ones naming their ship after a weather calamity.”

Enjolras’ voice calls out, preventing Michel from pursuing his line of questioning.

“Frantz says we’ll be on them in twenty minutes at best, the wind is with us!” he says, making his voice heard across the deck. “Gun crews to your places, and wait for the signals from the _Misericorde_ as to who will fire the warning shot. Fire on my command, they may surrender to us given they’re outnumbered. We’ll go around on their port side, the _Misericorde_ on the starboard.”

Enjolras meets Michel’s eye, stepping away from his place at the helm with Combeferre, who steers the _Liberte_ with a focused precision Michel admires. Courfeyrac walks across the deck, making sure the men are in the correct places, while Feuilly tends to the deck crew, managing the rigging and the sails, everyone working fluidly together. Michel’s eyes flit over to the _Misericorde_ , where Valjean stands at the wheel. Fantine strides across the deck with firm step, Cosette at her side, seeing the orders carried out. It strikes Michel now, why they’re so effective at what they do, far from the gang of sloppy drunkards some made pirates out to be. Quite suddenly Astra’s at his side, meeting him just before Enjolras comes over.

“Astra,” Michel chides. “You’re supposed to be below with Chantal.”

“Oh I will in just a moment,” Astra says. “I wanted to see a bit.”

“Astra,” Michel says again. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m quite aware,” she says, smirking at him, and he can’t help but smile at her. She pauses, noting the tense lines in his face. “Are you ready to be a pirate?”

“No,” Michel says, honest. “But I’m going to do it anyway.”

“What’s going on?” Enjolras asks, approaching them, and despite feeling a uncomfortable still, a rush of pride fills Michel when he looks at his son, and again when he looks at Combeferre. They are skilled, they are brave, they are principled, and even if he’s still adjusting to the means of their revolution, he cannot deny the ends are just.

“I’m teasing your father,” Astra says. “I’m also going below with Chantal before he goes ill with worry but mark me, the both of you, once Fantine has me trained with that dirk I won’t always be going below.”

“Noted,” Enjolras says, taking one of her hands and pressing his lips to her knuckles, easing some of the concern Michel sees bloom in her features as they grow closer to the Spanish ship.

She glances at them once more then goes below, and Michel turns toward his son.

“How does this usually go?” he asks.

“We fire a warning shot,” Enjolras explains. “Then give them some time to strike their colors. If they do, we board, negotiate and take what we will, and go. If they don’t, well. A battle ensues. But the policy is always to give quarter.”

“Even to the Navy or East India or someone like that?” Michel asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “Even then. It is a hard business and a dangerous one, all of this, but we are also determined to show a kindness and a mercy we might not receive from the other end, as Feuilly once put it to me. But we are not interested in inordinate bloodshed, no matter what the papers say.”

“They do say a lot,” Michel says, remembering a particular story. “I seem to recall one said that the Avenging Angel liked the sensation of warm blood spattered on his skin?”

“I can assure you I do not,” Enjolras says, and Michel nearly laughs at the serious tone.

“Do you usually catch a target within less than two weeks?” Michel asks.

“No,” Enjolras says. “The information we received on this one was uncannily accurate. Sometimes it takes a long time if we’re looking for a specific ship, though sometimes we take opportunity. It depends.” Enjolras pauses, looking hesitant, a question in his eyes.

“What is it Rene?” Michel asks.

“Well, given your skills I had thought to ask you to be on the boarding party whether it came to a fight or not, though I think our chances are good it won’t. We lost men, as you know, during the battle, and we haven’t replaced them,” Enjolras answers, biting his lip, an old childhood habit, and Michel sees pieces of the little boy who stole his heart the moment he set eyes on him resting within the adult. “But I would not push you to it.”

“I am honored that you would ask me,” Michel says, voice growing thick, and he clears his throat. “I accept.”

Michel watches Rene think for a few seconds, deciding something, then feels his son’s arms wrapped around him in an embrace. Michel returns it immediately pulling his child close to him, memorizing every inch of the moment.

It breaks when Enjolras sees the signal go up from the _Misericorde_ , and though Michel cannot interpret its meaning, his son brushes his hand briefly across Michel’s arm, and then he’s gone, headed back to the helm by Combeferre, shouting orders as they come upon the ship. The _Misericorde_ fires a warning shot across the stern of the Spanish ship just as they come around on either side, and though Michel sees them strike their colors, the men on board do not lower their weapons, cannons still visible.

Rene, he realizes abruptly, is no longer near the helm.

In fact, he doesn’t see the bright red anywhere.

“He’s just below,” Feuilly says, coming up behind him, his natural friendliness more evident now that Michel has earned some of his goodwill. “A normal tactic of ours, Valjean goes across first, and if he can’t convince them, Rene goes. Fauchelevent the Benevolent and the Avenging Angel tend to have different effects, but both useful.”

“Interesting,” Michel says. “I suppose we’ll see if Prouvaire’s news that some think Rene dead is true.” The word _dead_ makes Michel’s stomach sink, and for the millionth time since he left Kingston, he thinks of Javert, the memory of his sword crossed with Rene’s ever present in his mind. Despite his residual anger, he _misses_ Javert, wishes he would have come with him to Nassau.

Michel hears orders called out on the _Misericorde_ but silence rests on the _Liberte,_ so he leans over the rail, listening.

“Captain Montez, I believe?” Valjean says.

“Fauchelevent, I believe you’re called?” the captain answers in accented English, though Valjean did bring a Spanish speaking sailor on board with him.

“So I am,” Valjean says. “And I assure you if you surrender to us, no harm will come to you or your men. I see you have struck your colors, yet you have not lowered your weapons.”

“What is your intent?” Captain Montez asks, disbelief in his tone, and Michel admires his bravery even as a tremor enters his voice. “Benevolent may be in your name, but I’m afraid I don’t live by tall tales.”

“We’ve come to relieve you of the slaves we’ve been told you have aboard,” Valjean says, and Michel watches some guilt line the Spanish captain’s face. “And some of your other cargo. We do not wish to harm you.”

“You’re pirates,” Captain Montez insists. “Pirates, so I’ve been told, who defeated a company of East India and British naval officers. Why would you show us mercy when we hand over something to you if you have shown that kind of power?”

“Because it gives us no pleasure to do harm,” Valjean says, and Michel hears him grow frustrated when the men still don’t lower their weapons. He gives a nod to Courfeyrac, who takes the meaning and strides back across the deck of the _Liberte_ , toward where Michel assumes Rene must hide. Enjolras emerges a moment later, straightening his hat as he walks with sure, firm steps over the deck and across the gangplank, boots landing on the _La tempête rouge_ with a thud. The sound descends into the hush that overtakes the deck in an instant, some of the men lowering their weapons in shock.

“The Avenging Angel,” some of them murmur, and Michel sees a flicker of annoyance mar Rene’s face before it falls back into place.

“We’d heard rumors you were dead,” Captain Montez says, eyes widening. “Killed in the battle with East India and the British Navy. You were shot.”

“Afraid it didn’t stick,” Enjolras says, voice low, the sun striking him at just the opportune moment, encasing him in gold light, and a further murmur ripples through the crowd. Michel looks over, seeing Feuilly trying hard not to smirk. “Now. If you would kindly lower your weapons and tells us where the slaves and the gold you carry are, I’d be most obliged.”

“If you can defeat the Company and the navy why would you let us go?” Captain Montez asks, courage still in his voice, but his resolve wilting, obviously reading his options.

“Because my overall intentions here succeed just as well without the need to harm you or your men,” Enjolras says, gazing around at the men, some of whom look exhausted and malnourished; the conditions were harsh on ships generally, but Michel knew well enough how unforgiving some of his fellow merchant captains could be, and it strikes him that just because _he_ tried to look after his men, it didn’t mean other captains did the same. “Especially not your men, who are bound by your undemocratic norms and must do as you say. Now. Will you complete the surrender? I’ll remind you that you are also very much outgunned.”

Michel watches Rene narrow his eyes at the captain, the blue searing with judgement.

Captain Montez nods hastily, ordering his men to lower the weapons and speaking in tones with Valjean and Enjolras that Michel cannot hear.

“Well,” Feuilly says. “That was simpler than usual. Superstitious sailors will be…”

“Superstitious,” Michel finishes. “You didn’t have to fire a _shot_.”

“Best case scenario,” Feuilly says, gesturing at Michel to follow him as Courfeyrac calls the boarding orders. “But you’d be surprised how often it works, once you’ve built a reputation.”

It does feel odd to take orders rather than give them, Michel thinks. He’s taken orders from superiors on land countless times, but he’s not taken orders at sea since he was barely thirty and Rene no more than an infant.

“Sweep the hold,” Valjean calls out. “And the captain’s cabin, I want no slave left behind.”

For a moment, Michel balks at following Feuilly toward the hold, thinking he might go instead to the captain’s cabin where he already sees a few men carrying out at least one chest of gold that would no doubt pay the crew once over without issue.

“I’m not sure I should…” Michel says, and Feuilly stops, turning back to look at him, a mixture of empathy and frustration in his eyes. “I don’t want to make them uncomfortable.”

“Are you one of us?” Feuilly asks, direct and uncompromising.

“I…” Michel says, images of Arthur and Javert and Rene and Frantz all mixing together in his head. He sees images of himself in his best days as and East India captain, proud, successful, and respected.

But those things came with the mark of a sin he cannot avoid any longer.

“Yes,” Michel finally says, releasing a breath. “I will follow your lead.” Feuilly nods, a small smile flickering at his lips. Michel follows, Cosette coming up beside them. Michel goes with them down into the hold, where no less than ten slaves are stuffed into a corner among tightly packed boxes of sugar as if there was no difference at all. He shuts his eyes a moment at the image of packing a great deal more slaves into his own hold even as he argued with his father in law about the overcrowded conditions.

But he’d done it anyway.

“We’re here to help you,” Cosette says, keeping her voice gentle so they know she means no harm.

“Who are you?” one man asks, and Michel realizes not all of them speak English, and they bear the look of newer slaves who might not be long from Africa. He hears some murmuring between two of the women in Swahili, having caught snatches over the years due do its presence in several countries on the eastern coast of the continent.

“We’re from the crews of the _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ ,” Cosette explains. “We make berth at Nassau.”

“Pirates,” the man says, understanding. “We’ve heard rumors. You’re not here to sell us?”

“No,” Cosette says, voice cracking slightly, no doubt remembering her own childhood memories, and Michel feels his heart clench, but rather than the guilt he’s felt before, he feels himself flooded with pure empathy. “I promise we’re not.”

“We’ll take you aboard and if you don’t have any liking to join either of our crews, we’ll make sure to get you wherever you might like to be, to the best of our ability,” Feuilly says, and the kindness in his eyes makes the group relax. He stops in front of Michel, holding out the key they must use to pick the locks on the manacles. Michel’s hands tremble when he takes hold, but he grasps firmly.

Michel moves toward one of the women first and she flinches out of instinct no doubt, and he tries mimicking the reassuring tone he heard from Feuilly and Cosette, though he knows the sight of someone like him was enough to draw out a reflex from her.

“I won’t hurt you,” Michel says, the sound of the lock coming undone loud in his ears. “I’m here to help.”

She nods, rubbing her wrists as the manacles come off.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

“Thank those two there,” Michel says, helping her up. “I’m just following their lead.”

The woman looks over at Feuilly and Cosette, a tiny, sad smile on her lips, and soon enough they’ve undone the manacles of all ten slaves, and they head back above, the sun blazing in Michel’s eyes after being down in the dark.

“Well,” he hears Prouvaire say as they head back to the _Liberte_ , and Michel sees Rene and Valjean making final negotiations with Captain Montez, no doubt warning him not to follow. “Two chests of that gold, and ten slaves rescued. A solid victory for our first prize in three months.”

“A sure way to piss off the Spanish government, given I’m sure that gold was theirs,” Grantaire adds.

“Oh they’ve got plenty, that small amount there is no skin off their nose,” Bahorel grouses. “King Philip probably bathes in it, the bastard.”

Michel starts helping with the preparations for sail, tending to some of the rigging when he hears Courfeyrac’s voice behind him.

“I suppose you’re officially a pirate then,” he says, a teasing in his voice that Michel’s certain he’s never heard directed toward him.

“I suppose that’s true,” Michel echoes, finding himself warm at the sight of Courfeyrac. He’d been there for Rene and Frantz when Michel hadn’t, and he never wavered. “You are an excellent quartermaster, Auden,” Michel says before the fear stops him. “To your men. A fine sailor. A loyal friend. Truly.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac answers, surprised, but there’s a happy gleam in his eyes. “I appreciate that.”

He helps Michel with his work, and when they make sail, Michel sets his sights again on the wheel, studying Combeferre’s face, the younger man’s eyes narrowed in thought behind his spectacles.

“Don’t need a break?” Michel asks, walking up beside him, eyes flickering over to where Joly ushers the rescued slaves below so he might inspect them.

“Steering helps settle my mind,” Combeferre says, not taking his eyes off the horizon, but his tone sounds open to the conversation. “But one of the men is set to take over in about a half hour.”

“Good,” Michel says. “Good.” He pauses, searching for the words he wants. “Frantz, I…” Michel swallows, finding his courage, looking at Combeferre’s face once more before going forward, making sure he’s open to the topic at hand. “There are two moments in my life I am most ashamed of. One of them is the night I let my father in law make my son bleed and offered barely any recompense because of my own fear. The other is that morning you found the slaves and I did not immediately realize the gravity of what I’d done, both to those people and to you. Betraying your trust in that way. I cannot go back and change that, even if I wish I could. But what I’m doing now, trying to atone, if I can, it’s for your father, yes. For Rene. For all the people I’ve harmed. But please know that it is also for you.”

Combeferre takes a breath before looking over, and Michel sees wetness around his eyes. He removes a hand from the wheel, grasping Michel’s tightly, and Michel squeezes it in return. Part of Michel wants to share his new realization about his feelings for Arthur, but he senses now is not the moment, and he is raw in too many ways besides, too shaky, still, in the notion.

There is time.

“Rene’s quite scary, isn’t he?” Combeferre asks, smirking as he places one of Michel’s hands on the wheel spoke as Michel’s seen him do with Rene.

“Terrifying,” Michel replies, sharing the smirk, eyes flitting up as Enjolras walks over.

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asks, raising one eyebrow.

“How terribly scary you are,” Combeferre says, earning a glare from Enjolras. “I think you made the captain nearly soil himself.”

“Oh good lord,” Enjolras complains.

“Oh!” Bossuet says, near enough to hear this part of the conversation, making his voice go high. “Lord help me, the Avenging Angel has returned!”

“My poor heart can’t take it!” Grantaire chimes in, clasping a dramatic hand to his chest. “Call for Joly, I may die of fright.”

“Enough of that now,” Enjolras says, but it’s obvious he’s hiding his smile.

“I don’t know Rene,” Michel says, a chuckle breaking into his words as Joly emerges back on the deck from examining the slaves, bursting into laughter as he catches onto Grantaire and Bossuet’s antics. “Might be serious enough. You were quite scary.”

“I’ll remind Prouvaire to tell the most terrifying ghost story he knows tonight at dinner,” Enjolras replies, calm, but a soft laugh emerges. “Then we’ll just see if you tease me anymore.”

“You _are_ a pirate,” Michel says, meeting his son’s eye.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, letting the smile spread until it lights up his whole face, looking out around the deck as twilight falls. “I am.”

* * *

**Kingston.**

Javert feels a strong sense of foreboding when he’s summoned to Admiral Adams’ office. He enters after knocking, unsurprised at finding Baron Travers there as well; Javert scarcely catches the admiral alone anymore.

“You called for me, sir?” Javert asks, his voice hollow, the numbness that’s set in since he heard Admiral Adams and Baron Travers discussing his heritage and Rene’s fate remaining firmly in place. It’s been three months since Michel left, and his absence cuts into every day.

“Yes,” Admiral Adams says, looking uneasy but firm. “Baron Travers received word from one of his Spanish business contacts, and we have news to share.”

“Oh?” Javert says, looking on briefly at Baron Travers, who does little to hide his dislike. “What sort of word?”

“A reported engagement between a Spanish merchant ship and our pirate friends on the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_ ,” Admiral Adams tells him, and Javert has the sensation of someone metaphorically yanking a bandage from his skin, unforgiving and harsh, blood spilling out from a yet unhealed wound. “Ten slaves and two chests of gold were taken, though they left the sugar behind, I suppose they couldn’t be bothered.”

“I…where?” Javert asks.

“Off the coast of Trinidad,” Baron Travers answers. “It would seem they are out sailing again.”

“And Rene?” Javert asks before he can stop himself.

“Alive,” Baron Travers answers, and he nearly sounds disappointed, though there is a small pinch of pre-emptive grief. “And with his arm, so they say. But that’s not quite all.”

“No?” Javert says, willing himself into calm, because he knows what they’re going to say next.

“It would seem that none other than Michel Enjolras was sailing with them,” Admiral Adams says, and Baron Travers huffs in anger. “He started doing some business in Trinidad with the Spanish after the war ended and the Company could trade there again, and some of the sailors recognized him. He helped deliver some of the slaves from their bonds, if the reports are correct.”

“He’s been in Nassau all this time,” Baron Travers says, glaring at Javert. “Just as I predicted, and now there’s proof. I assume you knew this, captain?”

Javert doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and he’s surprised at the kindness in Admiral Adams’ voice when he hears it again.

“None of that matters,” Admiral Adams says, sensing the tension. “What matters is what we do next. And Captain Javert, I’m afraid it may be difficult for you, but it is also required.”

“Sir?” Javert asks, folding his hands behind his back, the only way he can hide their shaking.

“We will sail within a few days and see if we cannot find them,” Admiral Adams says. “We will make port if we cannot and listen for reports, it may take a few weeks. I will sail with you, though not with the Man O’War, because I fear it’s too slow, loathe as I am to leave the firepower behind. We will match them two to two. There will be no quarter, and we will bring them back here to face justice.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says, hearing some of the hollowness in his voice again, hoping it covers the sharp agony he feels in his gut.

Michel was helping them. Michel. A _pirate_.

 _Rene didn’t lose his arm_ , a gentler voice says, and he shakes it off. He doesn’t care about that.

He _does_.

“But given the sheer embarrassment of them slipping out of our grasp before, and the risk that it might happen again,” Admiral Adams says, placing one loose hand on Javert’s shoulder, but there’s nothing truly comforting about the gesture. “The more of them that fall during battle, the better.”

“Sir?” Javert asks, desperate for his superior to mean something other than what Javert thinks he’s implying.

“It would be best if Valjean, the Enjolras boy, the Fantine woman, and quite honestly, Commodore Enjolras himself were… _taken care of_ when we find them,” Admiral Adams says, and Javert feels his stomach drop. “If you find the opportunity, I would suggest you take it yourself, given you know their movements best. I know you care for Michel and his son, Javert, but you must understand what they have done. And it would be better than your suffering through their executions, would it not? Perhaps your own hand would be even more merciful toward them.”

_This is now how you show mercy, Javert. This is not how you show love._

Rene’s voice.

_If I ever taught you that something like that was mercy. Then I am heartily sorry, Nicholas._

Michel’s voice.

Javert looks over at Baron Travers, seeking a response.

“You will not find a different argument from me,” the baron responds, but Javert sees him grasping the chair he stands behind until he’s white knuckled. If Rene were here, he would say it was his grandfather’s humanity finally leaking out, but Javert pushes the idea off; he has to focus or he’ll go to pieces right here.  “My grandson and now my son in law have flouted decency and the law, my own feelings matter very little. They must pay the price and I must save my daughter from their clutches. She at least, cannot be held accountable for her actions. She has always been even more weak-minded than others of her gender.”

Sharp words for the baron crawl up Javert’s throat but he swallows them back down.

“Am I understood, captain?” Admiral Adams asks.

“Yes sir,” Javert says, feeling an urgent need to get out now, before the emotions building in his chest explode. “When would you like to sail?”

“Two days,” Admiral Adams says. “Even if they’re already back in Nassau, they have grown bold again and I’m certain will set out soon, and we can make sail for that area and wait. Baron Travers will be sailing with me.”

“Yes sir,” Javert says for what feels like the thousandth time. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Not at present,” Admiral Adams says. “I would only bid you to remember how crucial finding them is. For justice. For your own future.”

“I understand sir,” Javert says, straightening his posture, voice clearer now, hoping he might fool the two men before him. They already know he’s Romani. They already know he lied about seeing Michel before he left. They know he still feels affection for Rene and for Frantz. But at the least he can make them believe he’s still holding onto his convictions, onto his sanity.

But even if he cannot say it aloud, he knows neither is true.

“I will send a runner to alert the men so they can start preparing for sail in the morning,” Javert says, eyeing the sun as it sets beyond the window, casting an eerie orange glow through the room, lending a sheen of unreality to the proceedings.

Admiral Adams nods and Baron Travers remains silent as Javert exits, and he walks with a long, determined stride that he doesn’t break until he reaches the harbor, barely noticing the sailors waving hello to him in the twilight as he makes his way to the only place he’s ever truly felt at home.

The _Navigator._

He walks across the deck, memories jumping at him from every corner. His eyes rove over the mast that struck Arthur during the storm. He spots the board that Rene tripped over during one of their games, long repaired. He sees the wheel, remembering Michel standing with Rene one night, teaching him to steer. He looks over toward the bow where Arthur used to point out the stars to Frantz. It’s had a fresh coat of paint since the battle, a shiny brown washing over the ghosts of old blood stains. He walks faster heading toward the captain’s cabin and locking the door behind him, growing more frantic. He’s brought his belongings aboard but it still feels like Michel’s space rather than his own. He sits down in the chair anyhow, resting his head on the desk, brain feeling like it’s shredding into pieces. He tries and fails to get a deep breath.

He knew he’d have to chase them.

He _knew_.

He knew they might be executed but still he…he…

_You nearly killed Rene yourself before._

I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to.

_You have to._

They want me to kill Michel too. They want me to kill both of them.

_You have to. It’s your duty._

And Valjean. Fantine. They have people who depend upon them. Who love them. Valjean has let me go. Multiple times, when it would have been easier to kill me.

_They’re pirates. Pirates. Pirates._

“Michel did so much for me,” he says aloud, to no one. “How could I…I could not…”

_You’ve worked your whole life to do.your.duty. Will you give that up now?_

“I don’t know if I can live with myself,” he says to the empty air, his own words stabbing into him like knives. “I don’t know if I could live with Rene and Michel’s blood on my hands I…” his voice vanishes, blown out like a candle in a storm, all of his emotions over the past few months rushing forth again.

_They left you. They both did. To be pirates. And what of your treacherous mother? You must give her up as well._

“I…I...” Javert says, the words emerging as shards with jagged edges. “I l _ove_ them.” His voice dies again, husky and cut through like he can’t get enough air.

_You cannot have both. What is love, in the grand scheme of things? What is it, other than something getting caught in the wheels as society spins around and around, torn to shreds in the machinations?_

Rene’s words and his own swim around his head, the jail cell painted with dark, the boy sitting in the only pool of moonlight; it dripped down from the window and flowed across the floor to where he sat as if drawn to him.

_Love is an act of courage. Perhaps even an act of rebellion. But once you dedicate yourself to it, it becomes more natural. Never simple. But natural._

_And you think these pirates you know. You think they know something about love?_

_Why do you think we do what we do?_

_Laziness. Lack of any sort of moral compass. Selfishness. I could go on._

_You know that’s not true. Otherwise what Valjean did wouldn’t bother you. What’s happening here now, in this moment, wouldn’t bother you. The world is complicated, the politics are complicated, tactics are complicated. But love is the base of why we do what we do._

“He spoke as if love held power to undo wrong,” Javert mutters. “As if love itself was an act of resistance.”

 _He is a fool, the voice reminds him. You know who holds the real power. Men like Baron Travers. Like Admiral Adams. That is power_.

“What if Valjean is right?” Javert says, voicing the words aloud for the first time. “What if he’s _right_?”

_If Valjean is right, then your whole world is built on sand._

“Either he is right, or I am right,” Javert says, eyes landing on the old wooden sword resting in the corner of the cabin; he hadn’t gotten rid of it yet. “It is as simple as that. It has to be.”

_Is it?_

Javert shakes his head, slamming his hand on the table.

“I have orders,” he says. “That is what stands to matter here. I have orders. I cannot follow them, and yet I cannot flout them either.”

 _You could follow them_ that voice tells him. _And then remove yourself from the equation. You follow them, you do your duty one last time, but then you do not have to live with it._

“Remove myself from the equation,” Javert whispers. He remembers the various sermons he’d heard on Sundays, speaking of the grave sin of suicide. He’d never paid God or religion much attention other than attending church as was expected. He’d never applied it to himself, exactly.

Perhaps killing himself was a sin in the eyes of priests and pastors and ministers. But killing these people he loves, killing even Valjean and Fantine, was a sin in a world that was slowly creeping into his psyche, and he cannot decide who is right and who is wrong.

If they are right, then he has always been wrong.

If they are wrong, then he has been right.

_But is it so simple?_

“It must be,” he says, the impending area of gray he approaches terrifying him utterly.

_Does your life matter so little to you?_

“I cannot do my duty and bear it,” Javert says aloud, a decision forming in his mind, his voice cracking in half, the empty spaces filling with despair and anger. “But I must do my duty. So this is the answer. This is the answer.”

His mother’s words from the _Liberte_ reverberate inside his head.

_You said that night when you turned me away that I was your shame. Today, you are mine._

Her words lay heavily on him, and he remembers the look in her eyes, desperate for his love, but unwilling to sacrifice her principles for it. He’d hurt her, he realizes. But there’s nothing to be done now.

Soon, he will no longer be anybody’s shame. Not society’s for possessing Romani blood. Not Rene’s for betraying him. Not his mother’s or Valjean’s or Michel’s.

Not his own.

* * *

**Nassau. A little over three months since Michel’s arrival.**

Enjolras spots Orion far off in the distance.

The constellation fades against the sky as spring comes, but the other stars remain bright tonight, and Javert’s face inevitably comes to the forefront of Enjolras’ mind as his eyes scan the heavens.

“Betelgeuse and Rigel are hanging on,” Combeferre says, pointing up. “Still trying to let us know they’re there.”

“It really is beautiful on this island,” Michel says, side by side with Astra, the four of them walking barefoot on the beach. “Clearer sky here than in Jamaica.”

“This place makes you forget the rest of the world,” Astra agrees. “Like a sense of safety, almost.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, familiar with the feeling Nassau invokes in him, despite knowing how fragile the freedom of the island always is in a colonial world. “It is like that.” He pauses, looking over at his parents. “So, did you both enjoy your first time out on a pirate ship?”

“It was quite an excitement,” Astra says. “And it seems like you filled up Chantal and Tiena’s small boarding house with the rescued slaves. Will they stay on Nassau?”

“About half will,” Combeferre chimes in, answering. “But one of the crews on the island is setting out soon to do the full round, which will take them to the northern African coast and then down, and most of the men and women this time around are from coastal countries, Ghana, Liberia, and the like. So it will at least put them closer to home.”

“The round?” Michel asks.

“The usual route,” Enjolras clarifies. “Throughout the Caribbean and the Spanish Main, up along the coast of the North American colonies, and all the way out to the African coast. We haven’t gone so far as Africa ourselves, but it’s not uncommon.”

“What’s the farthest up you’ve gone?” Michel asks.

“Up to New York harbor and out into the Atlantic from there,” Enjolras answers. “Quite a busy route. We’ve gone around part of the coast of South America, too.”

“You run quite an operation,” Michel says, and Enjolras feels a happiness at the pride in his father’s voice. He certainly doesn’t require his approval, but the boy in him is still pleased to have his father share this work with him, to see the life he has here. I can still scarcely believe you accomplished what you did without firing a shot.”

“It doesn’t always happen,” Enjolras says. “But it happens more often than you’d think. It’s better for us and for them. We found that ship fairly quickly, sometimes it can take weeks or months to track a particular prize, but providence was on our side this time. The men were certainly happy. And we were able to stop off at Martinique and leave some money at doorsteps.”

“Like Robin Hood and his men,” Michel says, fond. “I see where the name comes from now. You all run a good ship. Keep a good crew.  I had never really considered that a more democratic system could produce less discord, I thought it too idealistic, but I was wrong there.”

“Pirates do squabble,” Combeferre admits. “But generally I think conditions are much better. Every man a voice.”

“Very egalitarian,” Astra says, and when she looks over to smile at them, Enjolras sees a mirth growing in her eyes. “You were quite scary, Rene. I see why the papers call you the Avenging Angel.”

“Oh good lord, not you too,” Enjolras says, but he doesn’t resist when she pulls him over to her other side, looping her arm through his.

“Yes, quite like those stories of archangels from scripture,” Michel teases. “So righteous, so sublime, that it can evoke fear.”

“I’m going to leave if you don’t stop,” Enjolras threatens, looking over as Combeferre laughs himself into stitches. “I’m sure I have work to do.”

“Nonsense,” Astra says, kissing his cheek, and he bites back a smile; when he left Port Royal, he could scarcely imagine a scene like this, walking with both his parents and Combeferre on Nassau, freshly returned from a voyage.

“You were supposed to be below when that was going on,” Enjolras chides, but Astra runs an affectionate thumb across his cheek, drawing a smile out.

“I was, mostly,” Astra says. “But I did want to witness for myself. Fantine is teaching me how to use the dirk, she says I’m a natural.”

“You are,” Michel says, and Enjolras sees his parents share a grin like he hasn’t seen between them since he was small.

“Don’t flatter me Michel,” Astra says, quirking one eyebrow.

“I’m not,” Michel says, raising both his arms. “I’m being serious. You are quite talented with it, and Fantine is an excellent teacher.”

“So she is,” Astra says, looping her free arm through Michel’s, and in turn, Michel loops his through Combeferre’s, the four of them walking as one down the shore.

“It’s been a little over three months since I came here,” Michel says after a few minutes of contented silence. “And I have found more joy, more purpose in this short span of time than I have in years. All three of you have inspired me. Drawn the courage out of me, and I cannot thank you enough.”

“We are glad you’re here,” Enjolras says, the emotion abruptly overwhelming him, and he blinks. “Both of you.”

“Old family joined with the new,” Combeferre adds, a twinkle in his eyes. “And sharing a purpose.”

Michel’s about to open his mouth to respond when they all hear a voice breaking into the night behind them, and Enjolras turns, seeing Gavroche running up to them, out of breath for his hurry, dark blonde hair fallen from its tie, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.

“Gavroche,” Enjolras says, seeing uncharacteristic worry on the younger man’s face. “Slow down, what’s the matter?”

“Bahorel and Prouvaire sent me,” Gavroche explains, and Enjolras thinks fleetingly that despite him being near on twenty, he still expects the higher, more childish tones out of Gavroche’s mouth, rather than the deeper voice of the present. “Bellamy’s crew just arrived back, and brought news.”

“News?” Enjolras asks, but his stomach sinks in anticipation, and he instinctively reaches for his arm, which still aches from the remaining stiffness after the bullet wound. “What’s happened?”

“Javert and that admiral,” Gavroche explains. “Adams, I think he’s called. They’ve been spotted about seventy leagues from here. Your grandfather is with them too, so they say.”

“We need to get back to the house,” Enjolras says, urgent. “Lead the way Gavroche.”

Gavroche nods, and they follow him in silence. Before he starts running Enjolras looks behind him, seeing the sky still scattered with stars.

But Orion has faded into the night, the few wispy clouds blocking Betelgeuse and Rigel, which always shine the brightest.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should never have encouraged me to do cliffhangers over on Tumblr, because now I'm liking them :D


	30. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle, part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to say heed the tags for this chapter and the next!

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 14**

**Nassau.**

Chantal and Tiena stay back on Nassau.

“Are you sure, Tiena?” Fantine asks, searching Tiena’s face, though it remains nearly as unreadable as usual. She meets her eyes, which are more vulnerable, seeing a mixture of sadness and resolve.

“If Nicholas sees fit to return with you, then my door and my home are open to him,” Tiena says, the slightest tremble in her voice. “He knows that, and I fear I have said as much as I may to him.” She pauses, looking down at the sand beneath her feet. “And if he falls, I…I do not wish to see it. I do not think I could bear it. I bore my separation from him for so long, I bore his rejection of me. I cannot bear that, too.”

Chantal puts an arm around Tiena’s shoulder at this, pulling her closer, and the other woman accepts, smiling tightly at her friend.

“Tiena,” Astra breathes, and Fantine hears a warmth in her voice that sounds similar to Rene’s, that unquenchable hope. “I’m certain Michel and Rene would do anything to prevent that.”

“And Valjean,” Fantine adds, keeping her own feelings about Javert to herself. She’s never entirely understood Valjean’s interest or belief in Javert’s ability to change, but she also knows people she loves love Nicholas Javert, no matter how much she distrusts him. She thinks of the fleeting softness in Javert’ eyes when Rene revealed himself that day they rescued Valjean; she thinks there’s a different man buried beneath the unrelenting officer, but it’s that man’s ability to emerge she can’t quite make herself believe, even if she wants to.

“I know,” Tiena says, extending her smile to them. “But we all know that things happen, and they are carrying their own scars with them into this battle. Nicholas tried to kill Rene. Then he shot him. And I would not blame him if that figured into his feelings. I would not put that burden on all of you.”

Fantine shares a look with Astra and Chantal as Tiena glances away; they’ve all been separated from their children for extended periods of time, and Tiena was no exception. But she was also the only one of them who hadn’t been properly reunited. The one who was rejected by her son after she found him, and Fantine can only imagine the pain of that sting.

Much as Fantine detests the man, much as she worries he may not change, she finds her resolve hardening, growing more determined to reunite them.

“You are a part of this family,” Fantine presses, drawing Tiena’s gaze back. “And it is not a burden.”

Tiena nods, pressing Fantine’s hand in thanks.

 “Astra are you set on going?” Chantal asks, wringing her hands.

“My father is aboard,” Astra says. “He is no doubt looking for me, and I do not want him going off on some scheme to send men to Nassau, even if it’s unwise, in the effort of looking for me. I am not sure they would, given what they’d be met with, but I will not risk the security of the island or what my father’s capable of in his wrath. I also do not feel I can separate myself from Rene, right now.”

“Perhaps I should go,” Chantal says, unsure. “What if Frantz…”

“We need you here,” Fantine says, reaching out and grasping Chantal’s arm in comfort. “If we are not back at the set time, we need you to send word to Sam Bellamy’s crew to come out for us, as they agreed. And with Astra’s father aboard, I’d rather you here, as well. He could use you to try and manipulate Frantz, if he realized who you were.”

“If that man lays a finger on my child…” Chantal says, a fire burning abruptly in her eyes, and she needn’t finish her sentence.

“Both crews have taken Auden’s lead and agreed to keep an eye on Frantz and Rene both, given the circumstance,” Fantine assures her. “Without of course, letting them know. But we’ll be watching them, Chantal. I promise.”

“I will distract my father if need be,” Astra says.

“Astra I couldn’t…” Chantal tries.

“I was powerless to protect those boys when they were young,” Astra says, taking both of Chantal’s hands now. “All I could do was protest, or hide them, or comfort them when the storm passed. Now, things are different. Besides, my father is not out for my blood. He’s out to take me back to England, and that makes a difference.”

Chantal pulls Astra into a wordless hug, and soon they’re all beckoned inward. Fantine soaks in the moment, drawing strength.

Then, they’re off to the ships.

“Remember what I taught you with the dirk, should you need it,” Fantine says to Astra as they part ways to board the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_. “I know it hasn’t been much yet, but valuable still.”

“I will,” Astra says, smiling at her. “Thank you.”

It’s a thank you for more than just the lessons, Fantine realizes. It’s a thank you for taking care of her son, for accepting her and Michel both into their home, for being a friend. Fantine watches her go, greeted by Enjolras and Combeferre as she boards. She grins as she watches Courfeyrac spreading Enjolras’ orders, confidence in his stride. She waves at Joly, Grantaire, and Bossuet, who wave merrily back despite the circumstance. She spots Bahorel going down onto the gun deck, returning the kiss he blows her. Prouvaire’s at his heels, offering her a sweeping bow, a grin on his face.  She turns toward the _Misericorde_ , met by Valjean, Cosette, and Marius as she steps on board.

“Cosette is set to head up the gun deck,” Valjean says, sounding as nervous as Marius looks at the prospect, but Cosette just pats his arm.

“Excellent,” Fantine says, winking at Valjean, who tries mightily not to smile. “After we lost Matthews in the last battle, and as the _Liberte_ cannot sacrifice Bahorel, Jehan, or Gavroche to the post, Cosette is best qualified.” She turns, glancing at Marius, who looks pale. “All right, Marius?”

“Quite ma’am,” Marius says. “Only a bit anxious.”

“You doubt my skills?” Cosette asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Never dear,” Marius says shaking his head adamantly. “I only, well. I’m worried for all of us. I’m a bookkeeper and don’t understand much of the fighting strategies more than for my own survival. But I do trust all of you I just…”

“I know,” Cosette says, kissing his cheek and looking resolute.

“Bellamy’s crew is set to aid us if we don’t return within the set time frame?” Valjean asks, his voice cutting into the uneasy silence.

“Chantal will send word,” Fantine says, nodding. Her eyes glance back over at the Liberte, lips flicking upward when she sees Feuilly ruffling Gavroche’s hair as he calls out orders to the deck crew, ordering them to do something Fantine can’t hear to the sails. He catches her glance, waving at them, and she sees some of the worry lines in Valjean’s face ease. “Tiena is staying behind, too. She cannot bear if it something were to happen to Javert, but she says her door is open if he so wishes it.”

“A message I will certainly impart to him,” Valjean says. “Though I expect he already knows.”

“What do you think he’ll be like?” Fantine asks. “Javert, I mean.”

“Desperate,” Valjean says in a single word summation.

“Desperate, Papa?” Cosette asks, tilting her head.

“To be right,” Valjean elaborates. “To stop his worldview from crashing down around his ears.”

“Hasn’t it already?” Cosette presses.

“Yes,” Valjean answers, putting out a hand and squeezing her shoulder. “And that’s what led to the desperation in the first place.”

“That makes him dangerous,” Cosette says, answering her own question.

“Very,” Valjean says. “But we must face this, now. I’m afraid there’s no hiding from it, for it will only find us later.”

Fantine puts an arm around his waist at that, knowing what it means for him to speak those words.

“Are we taking the usual route?” Fantine asks.

“Yes,” Valjean says. “Combeferre did the usual calculations, and last Prouvaire reported they were about 40 leagues from Nassau. I’d wager they wouldn’t get closer than 30, and I suspect they’ll be waiting for us.”

“Gives us a slight advantage,” Fantine says. “They can’t sneak up on us, at least.”

“No they cannot,” Valjean says, nodding his head at her in agreement. “But now that all the preparations are made, I think it’s time to do this. You may do the honors, Fantine.”

“Aye, captain,” Fantine says, a slight tease in her voice, but it’s worth the gleam of light in Valjean’s eyes.

“Anchors aweigh lads!” Fantine calls out, walking down the deck. “Let’s get her going!”

She hears the echo of the call on the _Liberte_ , her eyes catching on Enjolras, who stands near the bow, red coat fluttering in the wind, and tipping his hat toward Valjean, who tips his back with a proud smile.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t afraid of what they faced. But something about the sound of the wind in the sails, the sound of the anchor going up, bolsters the faith she can never truly let go of.

“Are you ready, Mama?” Cosette asks, stepping up beside her.

“I think so,” Fantine says, seeing something in Cosette’s eyes. “What are you thinking about, darling?”

“Just something Rene said, before the last battle,” Cosette says, eyes looking out with concern over the man in question. “That speech he gave. He said something like _no matter if they remember our names, the people who come after us will remember the dawn we brought. They will remember us ripping holes in the darkness and letting the light shine through, that we risked our lives for it._ And I think that’s why, well…I think that no matter what happens, that’s why people like us will succeed, eventually. Collectively, I mean. We face immense hardships, I know. I wouldn’t deny that. But the only way to permanently lose, is to give up.”

Fantine leans over, kissing the side of her daughter’s head, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“You’re right my dear,” Fantine says, holding her close as the ships start sailing away, sunbeams skipping playfully across the water. As the bay falls behind them, her eyes land on Combeferre, a gust of wind blowing his hat off as he stands at the wheel, and Cosette laughs as Courfeyrac catches it. “You’re absolutely right.”

* * *

**Aboard the Navigator.**

When they’re near thirty leagues from Nassau, Javert takes the order from Admiral Adams to trice the sails to prevent too much movement, and waits in his office for his superior to arrive.

“Sir,” Javert says, relieved when he sees that for once, Admiral Adams is alone as he steps inside the _Navigator’s_ captain’s cabin. “I trust your longboat trip was not too treacherous?”

“Water was a bit rough,” the admiral says, taking a seat across from Javert. “But no storm in sight, thankfully.”

“Are we to wait for them here?” Javert asks.

“My sources say this is their most usual path,” Admiral Adams says. “And we’re less than a day’s sail from New Providence, so it would take time for anyone to come to their aid if we do catch them. So we will wait a few days, yes. I would not go any closer to the island with only the two of us.”

“No,” Javert says, shaking his head. “I agree. Too much danger of being overcome if we ventured in further. If I may say so sir, if they hear word of us being near, they may come to us voluntarily so the fight happens on their terms rather than us catching them by surprise. It does give them an advantage.”

“It does, but I would rather end this now,” Admiral Adams says, gravity in his tone. “They will be overconfident since their victory that Michel so grievously allowed, and that will be their fall.”

Javert can’t quite make himself answer, giving into a moment of human frailty, and he looks away from his superior, which doesn’t go unnoticed.

"Is it true that Baron Travers hit his grandson?" Admiral Adams asks, the sound of his voice in the momentary quiet surprising Javert.

"Yes," Javert says. That at least, is a lie he doesn’t have to tell.  

"And did you agree with the treatment?"

"I felt he grew a bit...harsh as time went on," Javert admits. "But it was also not my place to interfere. Michel asked me not to, back then, even if he didn’t like it either.”

"That children sometimes require a firm hand I know myself," Admiral Adams says. "My son was rambunctious as a boy. But I am not surprised Andrew went too far, though with that grandson of his I can perhaps understand the temptation. To be frank I’ve never particularly cared for Andrew Travers; I preferred Michel a great deal because he was more amiable and less prone to temper. Had a sense of honor that had to do with more than wealth, which I think any naval officer can appreciate, but the fact remains that he has become a pirate, and his father in law has not. In any case if we retrieve Astra Enjolras from those wretches and she goes back to England with her father then we will be rid of the entire Travers-Enjolras clan, which I think at this point for all their trouble, it will be a relief. Though I know it is difficult for you.”

“I swore an oath sir,” Javert says, crushing down all the images of Michel and Rene and Frantz and Valjean swimming around in his head. “I will do my duty. I assure you.”

“I have no doubt,” Admiral Adams says, but a tiny sliver in his voice makes Javert think he _does_ doubt.

 “I would like to bring up a subject that is perhaps…sensitive,” Admiral Adams says. “If you would be amenable.”

“You may ask whatever you like sir,” Javert says, but his heart pounds in his ears.

“Baron Travers told me of your heritage,” Admiral Adams says, and Javert releases a breath; at least he didn’t seem to know he’d overheard the conversation from a few months ago. “You had your reasons for not telling me, I’m sure, which I am inclined to understand. But I imagine your upbringing was…less than ordinary.”

“My parents sailed with pirates sir, if that is what you are asking,” Javert says, sweaty hands grasping at the fabric of his breeches, his voice hard.

“And yet you have made it your life’s work to see the rogues brought to justice,” Admiral Adams says. “It’s surprising.”

“I am not proud of where I came from, Admiral Adams,” Javert says, feeling shame creep up his skin as he imagines his mother’s disappointed face, and he thinks the admiral is trying to make him disavow his past.

“But you broke free of it,” Admiral Adams says, musing. “That is rare, I think.” He pauses, studying Javert, something softening in his expression. “Did Michel know? That you were Romani?”

“Yes,” Javert says, not elaborating.

“And his son?”

“Yes,” Javert repeats.

“Well,” Admiral Adams says, tentatively patting Javert’s hand, a kind of jealousy in his tone. “If things go well with this you shall have a new beginning. And new comrades. And I will be willing to…overlook the past.”

“Yes, sir,” Javert says, hearing the foundation of his voice breaking, and it is only his hands grasping the edges of his desk out of the admiral’s view that keeps it from shattering audibly.

There will be no beginnings, because there will be no future.

There’s a pause and the admiral stands up again.

“Put extra men on watch, if you would,” he says. “I have a formation in mind that would allow us to use raking fire on their bows as they approach, and I want to know when they’re coming so we have the time.”

“Yes sir,” Javert repeats, exhausted from the same words. “I’ll put the best men on it.”

Admiral Adams nods, and then he’s gone, leaving Javert alone to this thoughts.

Less than two days later, Javert’s prediction comes true, and he’s summoned when his men spot two sets of sails approaching.

“Their colors are already flying sir,” Anderson says, meeting him as he comes up on deck. “They’re making clear their intent. It should be about three-quarters of an hour until they are upon us, from this distance, with the wind.”

“Direction?”

“East-southeast,” Anderson answers.

“Alert the sailing master,” Javert responds, taking the spyglass and agreeing with Anderson’s calculations as he sets eyes on the pair of ships. “Tell him to turn the ship into the formation Admiral Adams requested.”

“Which is what sir?”

“Bow to stern,” Javert clarifies. “Our port sides facing them as they approach. And…” Javert swallows, forcing the words out, yet they emerge cold and devoid of emotion despite the chaos of feeling crushing down on his chest. “Give no quarter.”

Anderson nods and turns to go, but looks back again, sympathy in his eyes.

“Captain Javert?”

“Yes Anderson?” Javert grumbles.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Thank you, Anderson,” Javert says, unable to avoid answering for the earnest expression on his first officer’s face.

Javert calls out orders and then he waits, standing by the rail on the portside, staring out ahead of him.

Waits for Valjean.

Waits for Rene.

Waits for Frantz.

Waits for Fantine.

Waits for Michel.

Waits for their deaths.

Waits for his own.

He looks over at the _Majesty_ , seeing Baron Travers joining Admiral Adams near the rail. He’s never been as conscious of his body as he’s been since he decided he would not opt to survive much beyond the return journey back to Kingston. He notices the sound of his breath, the beating of his heart, the way his toes are always cold despite the heat.

 _You may not survive the day_ that voice in his head reminds him. _They may win._

Something about the words light the candle of rage burning in the pit of his stomach and it spreads, hot and unrelenting through him.

Then, he makes out a face standing near the bow of the _Liberte_ as it approaches.

Two faces.

The small wisps of fog clear, and he sees Michel and Rene Enjolras standing there together, nearly the same height. Michel’s black coat contrasts with his son’s red one, his clothing as Javert’s never seen it: his shirt untucked underneath his waistcoat, his cravat missing, his hair still tied back but with pieces flying loose from the queue, his hat nowhere in sight. The black flag flies overheard, whipping in the wind, the skull and crossbones leering.

Michel’s a pirate.

A _pirate._

Like his son before him.

He looks away because he cannot bear it, but he’s only met with the sight of Valjean and Fantine on the _Misericorde,_ and the flame inside him turns into a wildfire.

“Fire on my command!” he shouts. “As soon as we’re in range!”

“They’re not turning sir!” Anderson exclaims, running up beside him. “I think they’re going to come in on either side and strike us with raking fire, instead.”

 _Of course_ , Javert thinks. The one weakness of this formation that they latched onto. He looks out again, eyes focusing on Enjolras; he can’t make out his expression, but he’s also certain it was his strategy.

“Give off one round of the cannons and then turn so the bow faces them,” Javert says. “They’ll rake us from the side for a moment as they come around but then it will end. Tell the sailing master to pull in tight with the _Majesty_ so we’re not taking fire from both sides.”

“Yes sir,” Anderson replies, running back toward the wheel and nearly slipping in his rush.

“Fire one round!” Javert shouts! “Fire all! Rake their bows while we can!”

“Trying to meet me at my own game aren’t you Rene,” Javert mutters. “Fine. _Fine_.”

The trouble with raking fire was the inaccuracy, but he watches as one of their cannon balls rips through some of the cordage on the _Misericorde_. Both pirate ships sail on either side of them and out of the line of fire, and Javert sees Combeferre at the wheel, focused as ever. Some of their raking fire from the _Misericorde_ strikes the hull of the _Majesty_ and another into the rail of the _Navigator_ before they’re fully in position, sitting tightly together side by side, the _Misericorde_ by the _Majesty_ , and the _Liberte_ by the _Navigator_. A wave of fire comes from the _Misercorde_ first, drawing Javert’s eyes back over, where Valjean stands alone now, and the two men make eye contact.

Something in Javert bursts, and this time, the anger runs down not cold, but scorching, his mind a haze of rage.

This was Valjean’s fault.

Valjean caused this.

Valjean took Rene. Then Michel.

He let Valjean escape in the first place.

He could never catch him.

Was this….

The rest of the thought melts away in his anger and he calls orders to Anderson, who answers affirmatively, looking afraid of Javert’s expression. Javert makes his way across the deck of the _Navigator_ , memories haunting every step.

One step.

_Rene offering him the wooden sword._

Another step.

_Michel clasping his shoulder._

Another step.

_Arthur showing Frantz the stars._

Another step.

_His first day on the Navigator, the other men gossiping as he came aboard, the word of his failure spread, but Michel shaking his hand with a smile._

Another step.

_Nassau. Standing with Valjean beneath the stars, both holding their ground._

Another step.

_Valjean letting him go. Twice._

Another step.

_Fantine circling him, ferocity and love in every movement, determined to have Valjean back._

Another step.

_The scarf falling off Rene’s face, revealing him._

Another step.

_The pools of red material on the floor, Rene’s hair lit gold._

Another step.

_His mother stepping into his office, desperate for his love._

All of it tangles into an incomprehensible knot as he steps onto the deck of the _Majesty_ , the hot anger growing cold again as he strides across and then bursting into flame again when he walks over the gangplank and onto the _Misericorde_.

Valjean’s waiting for him.

“Javert,” Valjean says. “I…”

“I’m not here to listen to your excuses, your explanations, or your lectures,” Javert spits, his words lava as they land on the deck, pulling his cutlass out of his sheath.

“Javert,” Valjean says, infuriatingly calm. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“Do you see where we are?” Javert screams, stepping closer, and Valjean does pull out his cutlass for defense. “Don’t you hear the cannons, Valjean? Doesn’t the smoke and the acrid scent of gunpowder make you choke and gasp for breath? Don’t the groans of wounded and dying men resonate somewhere deep and dark inside your chest? This is battle, Valjean. You fight, or you die.”

“Are you going to kill me, Javert?” Valjean asks, and the kindness in his voice is unbearable, cutting done to Javert’s bone.

“I should have killed you a long time ago,” Javert growls, his words punctured by the sound of pistol fire. “I should have taken my chance and killed you that night on Nassau and left you bleeding on the beach. That would have been justice. But I didn’t, because I remembered how you let me go those years before, on the ship. How you didn’t turn me over that very night in the middle of the pirate tavern. I let you make me soft. I let you make me search for honor among thieves. No more, Valjean. Never again.”

“Are you certain?” Valjean asks, and it’s these words that make Javert answer with a swing of his cutlass, seeing a flicker of anger and impatience in Valjean’s eyes now, gold among the dark brown, and he parries, pushing Javert back with a burst of his usual strength.

Javert swings again.

Valjean parries.

Swing.

Parry.

Swing.

Parry.

“Fight me, Valjean,” Javert snarls. “Or do you need someone to protect to show your real skills? I’m sure I could arrange it.”

Valjean narrows his eyes, and Javert almost grins, feeling the madness he kept at bay flood into his veins, unchecked.

“Do not test me, Javert.”                                     

"How did you do it?" Javert asks. "How is it that you manage to pull all of these people to you?”

"I am a lucky man,” Valjean says, some of the kindness returning to his voice. “I am grateful for the people in my life.”

"Oh do not be so sickeningly humble!" Javert shouts. "What tricks did you use, hmm? How did you lure them to you? Turning them into these pirates"

"Javert, I didn't..." Valjean tries again.

"You took them from me!" Javert cries without his own permission, the words coming up his throat like broken glass and emerging in bloody shards on the deck.

"Who, Javert?" Valjean asks, voice gentle for a man pointing a sword at him, but laced with determination.

"Michel. Rene," Javert says, fighting back furious tears now. "Good lord, even my own mother. Pulling them into this hive of pirates."

"People make their own choices. I simply gave them a place to be."

"Oh please," Javert says. “Rene would not take much persuasion, I grant,” he continues, poison in his voice. “He was trouble from a young age, long ceased being that little boy I knew. My mother never did care enough for societal norms. For living an honorable life.”

“Perhaps because society itself tried to strip her of dignity because of her birth,” Valjean says, irritated again, but his tone is oddly free of judgement.

“But Michel,” Javert says, ignoring him. “How on earth did you make it so that _Michel Enjolras_ became a pirate?”

“Michel wanted to make amends with his son, with Frantz, with Chantal and with his wife,” Valjean says. “It had very little to do with me. But he has found the good man within himself again. He wants to atone, Javert, for the injury he caused. He came with that idea himself. He did not hear it from me. I just opened the door to him.”

“He was a good man _before_ ,” Javert insists.

“He wanted to be,” Valjean answers, sad. “And so do you. If I'm not mistaken, Michel asked you to come with him."

"To a den of criminals?" Javert scoffs. "I am a man of the law. That is without question."

"Are you certain?"

_No._

"Yes," Javert says, talking over the voice in his head. "I have been sent with a kill order, do you understand? For you. For Michel. For Rene. For Fantine. The rest are to be taken back to face trial and Astra back to England with her father. _That_ is the order. _That_ is..."

"Don't you see, Javert?" Valjean replies, cutting him off. "Admiral Adams, Baron Travers, they are standing over there on that ship asking you to prove your worth by executing people they know you love. They could not possibly be crueler to you."

“Everything is cruel,” Javert says, swinging at Valjean again, the tips of their swords sliding against one another and going above them in an arch before breaking apart.

“That is not true,” Valjean tries, making the mistake of taking his eyes off Javert’s sword, and the latter manages a shallow swipe at his side before Valjean pushes him off, reaching down toward the wound, his palm coming away smeared with blood.

“It’s like I said,” Javert says, stepping closer again. “Fight. Or die.”

Valjean finally adopts an offensive stance and Javert mirrors him, but a voice cuts through the air before he can make his attack.

“Nicholas,” Michel says, and he doesn’t need to shout. Javert surveys him, seeing a streak of blood across the top of his hand, black gunpowder smudged on his forehead.

Javert spins on his heel, assuming Valjean won’t attack with his back turned. He stares at Michel, who stares back, cutlass drawn from a previous engagement but not pointed at him. The metal gleams in the sunlight, but there’s blood running along the edge. Not enough for a fatal wound, Javert surmises, but a fairly serious injury.

“Nicholas,” Michel repeats, moving closer, and Javert feels Valjean’s eyes on the two of them. Michel’s gaze lingers, running over the row of medals pinned to Javert’s coat, out of their normal order; a tiny thing, but something Michel would notice where Admiral Adams would not. Worry pinches at his expression further when he sees one of Javert’s buttons undone. “You don’t look yourself.”

“You,” Javert tries, the words turning to ash in his throat.

There are no judgmental lectures in his words like when he saw his mother again, no sharp, condescending insults like with Rene, no desperate, angry arguments like with Valjean. None of that comes because Michel has never been anything but solid. Michel has never been anything but stable. Michel took him under his wing. Michel was his mentor and his friend. Michel was more of a father than his own father ever was. Michel was there after Javert told himself he’d never have family again. Michel was there even in his own grief after Rene and Frantz ran away. Michel was there, serving as a counterpoint to Valjean, who would never quite leave the back of his mind.

But here he was. A pirate. A scoundrel. A thief.

The coppery smell of blood in the air sends an image into Javert’s brain: Michel lying on the deck of the ship, covered in blood, Javert’s cutlass dripping with it as he stands over him. Valjean and Fantine lay near him, unmoving, and all Javert can hear is Rene’s scream of pain reverberating in his hears. He shakes his head, pushing the image off.

 _I can’t do this_ , he thinks. _I can’t kill him. I can’t kill Rene. I’m not sure I can kill Valjean._

He remembers the judgement in his mother’s eyes when she came down to the brig after his fight with Rene. Remembers calling out after her before he even realized what he was doing.

 _You must,_ the voice reminds him. _It’s your duty._

 _I can’t bear it,_ he insists. _I’m weak. I’m weak._

_You won’t have to bear it._

“Valjean does not require my defending,” Michel says, but when he reaches out a hand for Javert, the latter pulls back, seeing a pinch of anger in Michel’s eyes at the reaction. “But I think you were truly looking for me.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Javert says, voice cracking like a whip through the air, making Michel’s eyes widen. “I was looking for both of you, make no mistake. He started this. He began it.”

“Nicholas…”

“And yet here you are!” Javert shouts. “Throwing your lot in with a pirate.”

“You knew where I was going,” Michel insists. “You knew.”

“I didn’t think you’d join their crew,” Javert says. “I didn’t think you’d go on a voyage and steal cargo out from under an honest Spanish merchant.”

“Most of that cargo were human beings!” Michel says, giving into a rare shout. “And you know that. You know it full well. I have to atone, Nicholas. For the things I have done.”

“You were right,” Javert says, sharp, unrelenting pain cutting into his chest. “You were an upstanding man. You were an _irreproachable_ man. You threw away your life for what? For _what_ , Michel?”

“For my son!” Michel says, louder than Javert’s ever heard him. “For Arthur and for Frantz. For Astra. For these men and women standing on this ship, for the people like them, who have been through hell at the hands of men like me. I owe them more than my apology. I owe them action.”

“This is not what you taught me,” Javert presses, pointing his sword toward Michel now, and he watches the other man’s eyes widen.

“Javert,” Valjean tries.

“No,” Javert says, shoving at Valjean with his hand. “Not this time Valjean. I am getting your voice out of my head for good.”

“What’s your purpose, Nicholas?” Michel asks, lowering his voice.

“You said you would understand if they sent me after you,” Javert says, feeling his brain liquefy inside his skull. “You said that before you left.”

“I did,” Michel says, solemn, but Javert hears the apprehension in his tone. “I could never say otherwise, given where I have been. But I had hoped…” he trails off.

“Hoped what?” Javert asks, breathless.

“Hoped you would come with me,” Michel says, and Javert’s startled by the tears in his eyes. “Hoped you would come to Nassau and join me. Join Rene and Frantz and your mother. Accept Valjean’s offer of an open door. I hoped you would come _home_ , Nicholas.”

“I don’t have a home!” Javert exclaims, throat raw, the cannons exploding behind him. “I’ve never had one. I thought I had…” he cuts himself off abruptly.

“You do have one,” Michel says. “You have one with us, if you would but take my hand and accept the truth. _Please_ Nicholas. Come home to Nassau.”

Javert’s alarmed at finding himself tempted.

 _These are good men_ , the quieter voice says in the back of his head. _You know it’s true._

“I will not,” Javert snaps.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Michel pleads. “Please don’t make me.”

“Oh but don’t the two of you sound like each other,” Javert says whipping his head around and glancing at Valjean before focusing back on Michel. “I’ve been sent to kill you, Michel. That is a fact. I’ve been sent to kill Valjean and Fantine.” He hesitates, knowing the impact the next words will have, knowing it will drive thoughts of the words before it from his mind. “I’ve been sent to kill Rene.”

Michel steps back at this, biting his lip.

“Nicholas,” he says, oddly calm, and Javert watches his eyes narrow in thought. “I think you and I both know you cannot do that. I saw you, after you shot him. We all saw you.”

“I very much can,” Javert says, confrontational. “I will, Michel. Mark my words.”

“Nicholas,” Michel says again, words firmer. “I fear something is not right with you.”

“I am an officer in his majesty’s navy,” Javert says, words jagged at the edges, an idea burgeoning in his mind that he cannot yet name. “And I am here to do my duty. I am here to follow through on the orders given to me by my superior officer.”

 “You will leave Rene alone,” Michel says, his cutlass ready for the offensive now, his hand shaking visibly. “This is the only warning you will get from me on the subject.”

Michel narrows his eyes further, this time in anger, and for the first time in his life, Javert fears his mentor, but that doesn’t stop the words, the horrible, hateful words he doesn’t mean from coming up his throat and spilling forth.

He can’t do this how does he do this he can’t _do this_. He thought he could do this and then he could end it but oh god now that he’s _here_ …

 _If Michel kills you_ , the dark voice says in his head. _Then you won’t have to do any of this. It will be over._

 _But you must kill him,_ the other voice insists. _You said you would. You said you would do your duty. And then you would end it._

 _Let him kill you,_ the other voice argues, both of them twisting together in a knot of confusing madness. _Make him angry. Anything could happen, now. This is the second time you’re attempting to kill his son._

 _He doesn’t want to kill me,_ Javert interjects.

_No. But he might if you threaten Rene._

“You needn’t waste your breath,” Javert says, feeling dampness growing around his eyes. “Rene will die, and he will die at my hand. He will bleed on this deck with every sin he ever committed.”

“Captain Javert,” Michel says through gritted teeth, swiftly losing his patience no matter the empathy he feels, no matter the pain. “You should stand down.”

“Perhaps his blood will be black,” Javert says, taunting him because he knows it will work, but he feels sick at the words; he never stopped loving that little boy he met, never stopped seeing him as the younger brother he never expected, no matter the pirate he became. Valjean’s protests fade into the background against the odd, high pitched whistling inside his head. “Black as his wretched heart.” For a moment, he softens, the façade dropping and laying him bare as he remembers the boy with the golden hair laughing in chorus with his father. “You can’t save him, Michel. He’s long gone. We all are.”

There’s a shout from Valjean but it’s drowned out as sunlight bursts through the cloud cover and Michel’s sword strikes Javert’s with an ear shattering crash.

* * *

**Aboard the Liberte.**

The sounds of the battle echo around the empty hold.

Out of reflex Astra shuts her eyes when cannon balls make that sickening contact with the wood, though she’s grown used to the sound of the weapons firing. She runs an absentminded hand over the dirk Fantine gave her.

 _I’m afraid you’ll be hurt_ Michel said when she argued about coming.

 _I understand_ , she’d said. But I will not be absent from everything happening. _I cannot be. You must understand that._

 _I do_ , Michel said. _I do_.

There’s the sound of the latch opening, the sound of someone walking down the slick stairs, which give an ominous creak as if the ship itself resents the person’s presence.

“Astra,” her father says, coming around the corner, adjusting his eyes to the dim. In this light he looks his age; pale skin burned from too much sun, bluish-purple veins popping out on his knarled hands, iron gray hair lacking its usual powder. Port Royal and Kingston always made him look younger, as if the society around him lent power and youth, but here on Rene’s ship, surrounded by people he has wronged, her father looks frail. “There you are. Rene’s ship is impressive, is it not? Loathe as I am to admit it.”

“You’re here to take me back, I assume,” Astra says, one hand on her dirk.

 “Correct,” her father says, coming closer. “We will rid ourselves of everything here, and we will return to England.”

“You want to kill Rene and Michel,” Astra surmises, feeling something burn up her throat. “That’s what you’re after.”

“You don’t particularly like your husband Astra,” he answers. “I didn’t suppose you’d mind so much.”

“Of course I mind!” Astra says, a shout burgeoning in her voice. “He is the father of my son. And we have become friends again, these past months.” She narrows her eyes, glaring. “You are also dodging. Is it not your intention to kill my son as if he was nothing more than a stain on your boot?”

“I did everything I could to try and save Rene,” Baron Traver says, sounding bored. “He spat on it. Threw it away. Ran back off with these pirates. The law is the law and he has shattered it.”

“The law does not always equate morality,” Astra spits. “Sometimes laws are only about power.”

“I should have put you in the asylum when caught you with that girl,” Baron Travers says, seizing her by the back of the shirt before she can pull out her dirk.

“Imogen,” Astra says through gritted teeth, surprised at the physical contact, the memory of his raised hand a few months ago after he cut up Rene’s coat dashing up from the back of her brain. “You know her name was Imogen.”

“It doesn’t matter what her name was,” he replies. “Because mark me my dear, putting you away will be my first order of business when you and I are back in England.”

Astra doesn’t answer and her father grabs her harder, his grasp firm for an old man.

“You look like a heathen in these clothes,” he continues. “What a waste of a woman you are. Beautiful, but with only a disgusting taste for your own kind. All I ever asked of you was to give me an heir, and you gave me that wretch of a grandson.”

“You’re the wretch,” Astra breathes, anger landing on every syllable with vehemence. “And you always have been. Your treatment of mother led her to an early grave, I expect. The stress you put her through to be the perfect wife. Or did you think I missed the bruises at the end of her life?”

“I never laid a hand on you Astra,” he says, an inch softer, and for a split second she sees the man she remembers from the early years, who at least deigned a smile at his daughter when he walked past, in the years when she flinched less as he walked into a room, preparing for a lecture or a fight, preparing for his judgement.

But even in the years where she outright feared him less, his love, his kindness, was always conditional.

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?” Astra says, feeling the tears springing to her eyes. “You did the best you could to isolate me, to make me feel less worthy. You tore me away from the woman I loved, from my home in England. You forced me into a marriage and when you saw me develop a friendship with my husband you made sure you put a rift into even that, and made him fear you to the point that I barely recognized him, dangled your approval in front of him and made him chase it like a dog. You beat my son. You did your damage to me without ever leaving a bruise, though I can’t say the same for Rene. I will not let you take me away now. Not from these friends. Not from Rene and Michel.” _I wrote to Imogen_ , she almost says, but bites her lips against the words, because it’s too much of a risk. “I would die before I let you lock me up and separate me from the joy I’ve found the past few months.”

“So dramatic, as usual,” Baron Travers says, releasing her and rolling his eyes. His face twitches and he frowns, studying her. “I am trying to save you, Astra,” he says, the condescension dripping off his words in thick, waxy drops. “From yourself. From these pirates. A less dedicated father would just leave you to your destruction.”

 “I never asked you to save me,” Astra says. “In fact I would rather you didn’t.”

 He seizes her by the front of her shirt this time.

“I will do what I need by force if necessary,” he seethes. “I have done it before.”

“You are trying to kill my child,” Astra says, narrowing her eyes, fear pulsating through her veins, but she stamps down on it, pushing forward. “I can promise you I will do whatever it takes to stop you. And you will _never_ earn my forgiveness.”

The door bangs open before her father can respond.

“Let her go _immediately_ ,” a voice says, and Astra’s eyes dart over, seeing Rene standing there, his eyes on fire with rage, his voice thick with ice.

“Ah Rene,” Baron Travers says, voice sickly sweet, but he does let Astra go.  “Come to beg for mercy from your old grandfather?”

“Not hardly,” Enjolras answers, stepping closer.

“I should have known better than to let you be around that Combeferre boy,” Baron Travers says. “Possessed by the devil as you’ve been ever since you met him. Oh, the man you could have been, Rene. What a waste.”

“I would warn you not to say anything of that sort about Frantz or myself again in my presence,” Enjolras says, danger in his tone.

“I’m not certain how much your requests matter Rene,” Baron Travers says. “It’s unclear who will be your demise, but you dug this grave yourself. So did the Combeferre boy. So did your father. Blame me all you like, but I bear no fault.”

Astra feels her breaths grow short, but she keeps her eyes focused on her father and her son, not missing how the former shrinks just slightly as Enjolras steps closer.

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise, lad,” Baron Travers says. “An order. Handed down from Admiral Adams to your old friend Captain Javert.”

There’s a tiny crack in Enjolras’ face at this, and Astra sees her father latch onto it, reaching out his hand slowly toward her son’s forearm, almost gentle, but with a sinister air.

“I made you an offer Rene,” Baron Travers says, and Enjolras stares at him, breath hitched. “And you didn’t take it. You forced my hand, don’t you see? You forced it your entire life.”

Baron Travers’ fingers grab at his grandson’s forearm and Enjolras realizes himself, pulling back immediately from the grasp, freeing his arm but not stepping away.  

Then, Astra sees real fear in her father’s eyes.

“You will not touch me,” Enjolras says, voice hard. “Ever. Again. Too afraid to kill me yourself, are you? You don’t want to dirty your hands. Or is because you know you wouldn’t stand half a chance in the attempt unless you shot me from afar like a coward?”

“Your faith in your own skills, in these rogues you call your crew,” Baron Travers says, avoiding the question. “They will be your downfall. Today.”

“Touch my mother again,” Enjolras says. “Come near Frantz, Auden, Valjean, my father, come near any of my crew within my line of sight and you will sorely regret it.”

“Is _that_ a threat?” Baron Travers asks, echoing his grandson’s words.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and despite all the laughter at the nickname, Astra sees pieces of the _Avenging Angel_ from the papers in her son’s face.

“There’s no need for me to dirty my own hands, to commit a sin against God by killing my own blood,” Baron Travers says. “Not when I am certain someone else will take care of it for me.”

“You want Javert to kill me,” Enjolras says, and Astra feels a chill go down her spine. “That way, your hands are clean. That way, you ensure his destruction as well as ours. Even if someone else gets to me or my father, you know if he’s forced to kill one of us, forced to kill Valjean even, it might destroy him.”

Astra watches her father’s lips curl into a smile, an impressed glint in his eyes.

“Smart lad,” he replies. “Contrary to Admiral Adams’ belief, Captain Javert has outlived his usefulness, has given into his natural propensity for villainy that he has been destined toward since birth.”

“He’s nothing more than a pawn to you,” Enjolras says, and there is cold, stabbing anger in his voice. “He’s done everything society told him to do, he followed the rules, he accepted the lie that his birth made him unworthy so he might have a place, and still, you see fit to crush him.”

“Life is unkind,” Baron Travers says. “But I will not be lectured to by a villain. I am saving Javert from seeing himself become, entirely, what he so despises.”

Enjolras stares at him. “You really think you’re right, don’t you?”

The door bangs open again, cutting off Baron Travers’ reply, and Astra sees none other than Admiral Adams come through the door, far more disheveled than usual.

“Ah,” he says, drawing his sword. “I see you found your daughter, Baron Travers. I suggest you take her out, she won’t want to see this.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Astra says, stepping forward. “Especially if you’re attempting to kill my son.”

Enjolras reaches back, squeezing her wrist once before stepping forward and drawing his sword expertly in Admiral Adam’s direction. Experience makes up for the admiral’s surprise and he meets the swing just in time, the sound of the cutlasses clashing echoing in the space.

“Javert taught you well,” Admiral Adams says, some astonishment in his voice at the speed of Enjolras’ draw. “It is truly unfortunate you’ve wasted your skills on piracy.”

Rene doesn’t answer, their swords crossing again, but movement is difficult in the lower hanging hold, no matter how spacious. Astra watches, transfixed; it’s the first time she’s seen Rene’s sword skills up close since he was a boy, and she cannot help but marvel at them. Their swords meet faster and faster and faster, and though Admiral Adams is talented, Astra can see Rene is quicker still, and much younger besides. But then, Admiral Adams swings at Rene’s freshly healed wound with his free fist; it’s a desperate move and earns him a swipe across the arm from Rene’s cutlass, but Rene gasps softly with the pain; Joly warned the muscle beneath might be sensitive for a time.

Something about the sound makes Astra stride forward, the sounds of the metal scraping against metal overloud in her ears.

“Mother, wait,” Enjolras says, but Astra ignores him, stepping forward, and Admiral Adams cuts his swing off halfway through, a shout of surprise escaping his lips.

“Maman,” Enjolras tries again, using the old term to try and draw her back, confused, but Astra remains a barrier between them.

“How far have you sunk, sir?” Astra asks, directing her question at Admiral Adams.

“Pardon?” Admiral Adams asks, catching his breath, hand going to the wound on his arm.

“That you would come in here and barely have any qualms about killing my son right in front of me,” Astra says, pulling the dirk from her belt out of pure instinct, and Admiral Adam’s eyes widen. She steadies her hand, injecting more confidence into her tone than she feels. “That speaks to a man who has lost his moral compass.”

“Astra, put that knife down,” her father says, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the man in front of her.

“Your son was perfectly willing to engage me madam,” Admiral Adams says, obviously unsure. “It is not my fault that he has taken part in piracy. I do not make the laws, but I follow them. I am sorry.”

“You are not,” Astra insists. “He came from me, do you understand? And then when he was still a boy, I had to let him go. I was separated from him for twelve years. Then after I’d found him I watched him fall, watched him bleed all over the deck of the ship he grew up on. And now you, in your _duty_ , are prepared to slay him here in front of me. My _child_.”

“Madam,” Admiral Adams says, and it’s clear her words are upsetting him, but he tries holding firm. “He is a pirate captain. I do not think he requires your protection.”

“I know he doesn’t!” Astra says, shouting. “I don’t care. He will have it. He has bled enough, all the people on this ship have bled enough, _I_ have bled enough at the hands of men just like you.”

Admiral Adams’ words are cut off, two more people landing in the hold.

Fantine and Cosette.

“There you are,” Fantine says, leaving her dirk and drawing out her cutlass. In one fluid movement Cosette draws out her own knife, pointing it at Baron Travers, who’s too slow in reaching for his pistol.

“I wouldn’t, baron,” Cosette says, calm, shooting Astra a tiny smile before focusing back on the task at hand.

“Rene,” Fantine says, and Admiral Adams is too surprised to react yet. “Your father and Javert are fighting. Valjean is there, but I would suggest you go.”

Enjolras looks back and forth between his mother and Fantine and Admiral Adams, still holding his cutlass.

“I will take care of your mother,” Fantine says, reassuring. “You may count upon it.”

“Oh will you?” Baron Travers spits, but he winces when Cosette moves closer with the knife.

“I _will_ ,” Fantine says, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I’m afraid _Captain_ Enjolras and I are not done,” Admiral Adams says, finding his voice.

“Oh you’re done,” Fantine says, stepping toward him. “Because I’m taking his place. Rene, go.”

Enjolras turns toward Astra, searching her face for permission.

“Go,” she says, pressing his hand tightly. “Trust Fantine. Trust Cosette. I’ll be all right. Go to your father and Javert. Help Valjean.”

“If you think you can bring Captain Javert over to your side,” Admiral Adams says, real vitriol in his voice. “You are mistaken.”

“We’ll see,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras presses Astra’s hand back, ducking past Admiral Adams, their swords clashing against one another as he rushes out past them.

“Rene!” Baron Travers shouts, his voice strangled.

“He’s not bound to you,” Fantine says, circling Admiral Adams now, who looks bewildered at the idea of fighting a woman, but the distraction gives Astra a chance to follow Fantine’s subtle glance toward the stairs, and she moves away from the wall, closer to the exit. “Not anymore.”

“Because he’ll be dead,” Baron Travers says. “And so will you.”

“I don’t think so,” Fantine says, shifting her attention back over toward the admiral. “Come on then, admiral. Don’t underestimate me because I’m a woman. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

Admiral Adams expression twitches, and Astra gasps when he abruptly swings, bringing his cutlass down on Fantine’s; there’s no doubt he possesses more strength, but Fantine has more speed.

Astra watches, impressed, as Fantine parries and darts out of the way until Admiral Adams accidentally swings his sword into the wood, pulling it back out with a shout of frustration.

“You’re skilled, wench,” Admiral Adams growls, and Astra’s never heard his demeanor crack like this. “But not skilled enough.”

“It seems like I am,” Fantine says, but her eyes are drawn away at a ruckus in the corner. Astra watches as her father goes for his gun, attempting to point it at Cosette.

“Cosette, knees!” Fantine shouts, and a second later Cosette’s foot connects with Baron Travers’ knee, and he shouts in pain, dropping the gun to the floor, both scrambling for it, but Cosette’s quicker. She picks it up, cocking it and pointing it toward the old man, breathing hard.

“Like I said baron,” she says, eyes crackling with intensity and life. “I wouldn’t.”

Admiral Adams swings at Fantine again, this time with a force she didn’t expect, and his blade cuts through her skirt and shallowly at her calf. She doesn’t blink, only winces, and meets his blade again. He pushes down, trying to make use of his strength. She holds for a few seconds, sweat beading at her forehead before pulling her blade away and ducking under his arm.

The risk works. Her cutlass cuts across his back, and she kicks the same spot, knocking him to the floor.

“Go!” she shouts at Astra. “Cosette, behind her, run.”

Cosette doesn’t question, ushering Astra out, Fantine following close behind, Baron Travers’ shout echoing behind them, his aching knee not letting him give chase.

“We’re running from our own hold?” Cosette asks as they emerge on the deck, short of breath.

“If we’re not there nothing will keep them,” Fantine says. “We need to take Astra to the hold on the _Misericorde_ instead, put a guard on the door, I…”

Her words break off as she looks toward the deck of the mentioned ship; she sees Michel and Javert’s swords crossed against one another, she sees Valjean standing by, shouting something she cannot hear. For a moment, a cloud of smoke and splintered wood blocks her view, but when it clears she sees the thing she should have expected, the thing chased from her mind as she focused on fighting the admiral.

Enjolras, running up toward the two fighting men, swinging his sword upward, and breaking theirs apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are fun, aren't they? :D As far as my outline goes there are about 4-5 chapters left after this one, just as a note, thanks so much to everyone for sticking with me!


	31. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle, part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to say heed the tags on this one, friends. Go look at the tags, did you look at all of them? Okay. 
> 
> Issuing a tissue warning on this one.
> 
> If you're into my suggested listening songs like I've done before, here are a few for this chapter!
> 
> Wandering Star, Lisa Gerrard  
> Star-Dust, Rogue One soundtrack  
> Plough and Orion, Skinny Lister  
> Know Who You Are, Moana

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 15**

**Aboard the Misericorde.**

Enjolras bursts out of the hold, caught by the arm before he starts running.

“Rene,” Courfeyrac’s voice says, the brightness dampened by worry. “Where are you going?”

“Auden,” Enjolras says, relief in his voice. “I was coming to look for you. I must go over to the _Misericorde_ , I need you to take over for me here. And if Fantine and Cosette don’t emerge with my mother soon, send someone down. Fantine is going up against Admiral Adams, and my grandfather is down there.”

“All right,” Courfeyrac says, processing all this information. Enjolras looks down, seeing his friend’s cutlass smeared with blood. “But what’s…” He looks out, but the clouds of smoke and the throngs of fighting men on the _Majesty_ and the _Navigator_ block his vision of the _Misericorde_ on the other end.

“Fantine told me my father and Javert are... _ah_ ,” Enjolras says, wincing, a sudden throb of pain pulsing through his arm. “Fighting. Valjean’s there. She said I ought to go over.”

“Your arm?” Courfeyrac asks, a gleam of concern in his eyes.

“I was winning the fight, Admiral Adams knew it, and he hit me there with his fist. It’s all right.”

“Frantz is over there as well, I believe,” Courfeyrac says, understanding he must go and so doesn’t argue, but they grasp hands tightly before Enjolras runs, hearing Courfeyrac shouting orders behind him.

He makes his way across the _Majesty_ without much fuss, waiting until more smoke and wood explode into the air so people don’t notice the flash of his red coat. Once he reaches the _Navigator_ he’s less lucky, and as soon as he sets foot on the deck he strikes down an officer across the chest with a swipe of his cutlass. He keeps running, not wanting to engage further. Childhood memories swell up around him in colorful, hazy shapes as he runs across the _Navigator_ , but there is not time to think on them. Suddenly there is another sailor in front of him, sword coming down. Enjolras meets him, but he’s not alone, three swords meeting in the center.

“Go,” Feuilly says, engaging the man instead, and Enjolras gives a quick nod, grateful.

“And be careful of your arm!” Feuilly calls out, his words mixing in with the metallic clang of cutlasses.

Enjolras lands on the _Misericorde_ , feeling the fleeting touch of Tiano, Valjean’s long time sailing master, on his back as he runs to the middle of the main deck, eyes widening as he spots his father and Javert. Javert strikes just as he lays eyes on them, his sword swiping at Michel’s shoulder, looking disturbed as a trickle of blood runs down Michel’s arm. Enjolras stands, frozen, as he watches his father, his _father_ , push down on Javert’s cutlass as he attacks again, pressing close until the edge of his blade scrapes across Javert’s knuckles, flinging red drops into the air.

A deep pain spasms through Enjolras’ chest at the sight, memories of his father and Javert clear behind a glass, sees Michel putting an arm around Javert’s shoulder, drawing a laugh out of him. He sees them standing together at the bow of the _Navigator_ , Javert trying so desperately to fill Arthur’s shoes, one of the only people Michel spoke to at any length in the weeks following Arthur’s death. He sees his father’s face through a haze of his own pain after Javert shot him, his eyes flicking down toward the miniscule cut on his neck, the pieces coming together under a mask of horror on his face.

A slow crack runs along the glass.

Then, it shatters.

“Javert! Michel!” Enjolras hears Valjean shout, watching his mentor kick an approaching officer down to the deck as if he weighed nothing, the man’s cutlass skidding across the wood. “Stop!”

But they don’t hear him. They don’t see anything but each other until Michel glimpses a piece of the red coat whipping in the breeze, his eyes catching on his son.

Enjolras unfreezes.

“Rene, _no_!”

Enjolras hears the shout from his father and Valjean simultaneously as he runs up, cutlass swinging upward and breaking Michel and Javert’s apart.

“What are you _doing_?” he asks them, not giving up his place between them, and Javert steps forward, a crackling madness in his eyes. “Back away from my father, Javert.”

“Oh _now_ he’s your father,” Javert spits, swinging his cutlass horizontally in a semi-circle, and Enjolras steps back, dodging, feeling Michel’s hand seizing the back of his coat. “You were quite happy to shun him for twelve years. But _now_ he’s your father.”

“And just what are _you_ doing?” Enjolras shouts. “Trying to kill him?”

“Rene,” Michel presses, trying to tug him away, nerves fraying his voice. “Go over to Valjean and leave this to me.”

“I’ve been sent to kill all three of you,” Javert growls. “Those are my _orders_.”

“Rene,” Michel pleads, catching Valjean’s eye. “Please step away.”

“If the boy wants to fight, Michel, by all means do let him,” Javert says, eyes darkening with what on first glance looks like wrath, but when he looks deeper, Enjolras sees something else, something broken and sad. “I can promise I won’t lose a second time.”

“I will not warn you again, Nicholas,” Michel says, biting. “You are my friend. My brother. And you are threatening to kill my son in front of my eyes. I will not stand for it, do you hear me?”

“You _son_ is a villain!” Javert shouts, but underneath Enjolras hears the foundation shuddering. “A pirate. He deserves what he gets.”

Michel swings at Javert again, and Javert responds, the blades scraping against one another. This time, Enjolras pushes his father’s sword away.

“Rene,” Michel says, the air of a lecture in his voice. “This is not your fight.”

“It has _always_ been my fight,” Enjolras answers. “He’s trying to make you fight him. He wants you to be angry.”

“He’s trying to kill you,” Michel argues, and Enjolras hears the agony in his voice. “I won’t let him.”

“He’s trying to make you kill _him_ ,” Enjolras says, understanding dawning on him as the words spill forth.

Javert flinches when Enjolras looks up, the cannons roaring behind them. Enjolras winces when he sees a man near them fall, splinters sticking into his legs and staining his breeches red.

Michel stares, the cogs moving behind his eyes. They settle as he looks at Javert’s face; he hears ragged, rapid breaths, sees the overly bright, feverish gleam in Javert’s eyes like an overwhelming burst of blinding starlight, the pupils nearly overtaking the gray irises.

“If you kill him, then he won’t have to kill us,” Enjolras continues. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Combeferre shooting down a naval officer who gets too close to them, meeting Enjolras’ gaze for a split second before he reloads.

Michel jolts at the realization; he doesn’t lower his sword, but he turns to Javert, softening.

“Nicholas, is that true?”

“Oh for Christ sakes!” Javert shouts immediately, spinning back around toward Valjean. “Is this what you’ve put into their heads then Valjean? That I care so…” he pauses, gasping for air, and this small thing indicates to Enjolras that his suspicions are correct. “Little for my own life that I’d toss it away? Tried to convince them they can _save_ me?”

“I didn’t convince them of anything,” Valjean says, but Enjolras sees from his stance that he’s preparing for a fight.

“You took them!” Javert says, a bitten back sob cutting into his voice. “You did this! _You_ did! Leading me to this place where I might be forced to kill the only people I ever…”

He doesn’t finish.

Instead he runs at Valjean, swinging erratically. These aren’t the practiced, precise swings and maneuvers Enjolras knows, but the desperate, lost strikes of a man who looks sorely tempted to fling himself out into the ocean. Their blades meet again and again and again, until Enjolras sees Valjean’s step slow a fraction, growing tired from keeping up with Javert’s frenzied, adrenaline-fueled pace after sailing on little sleep.

An old, dusty memory appears in his head, a memory of a sword scraping the top of his hand and making it bleed, a memory of his step faltering, a memory of another sword with a more powerful strike, Valjean’s sword, coming between an East India captain and Enjolras’ own cutlass. The day they rescued Chantal, Enjolras recalls, when he was no more than seventeen.  

The power of the memory pushes him forward, cutlass ready, when he feels a hand grasp the back of his coat.

He turns, seeing his father’s face etched with lines of terror, seeing the wrinkles and the graying hair more prominently here in the harsh atmosphere of battle. Here is a father sick at the idea of losing his son. Enjolras reaches out, squeezing his father’s hand, watching Michel close his eyes before nodding and letting go in understanding. Enjolras sees a gap forming between Valjean and Javert, sliding in so his sword takes the hit instead of Valjean’s. He hears the start of an argument in Valjean’s intake of breath, but it dies as he sucks in air.

“Out of my way, boy,” Javert growls. “Now. You can’t protect him from me.”

“Valjean has spent over twelve years protecting me wherever he could,” Enjolras says. “And teaching me to protect myself. It’s time I returned the favor.”

“He is not your father,” Javert insists.

“I have room in my life for more than one,” Enjolras replies. “Give this up, Javert. I know you don’t want to do this.”

“Going to repeat what your father said about coming _home_ to Nassau?” Javert taunts, words dripping with mockery. “Well I had a home, Rene. In Port Royal. And you and Frantz in your selfishness saw fit to destroy it with the great enthusiasm of the wretch you’re trying so hard to protect. Then he took your father too, and I’m telling you I’ve had _enough_.”

Enjolras meets Javert’s blade as he swings again, their swords crossing in the middle high above. They hold them there until Enjolras fades and jumps backward, hoping to lure Javert in.

It works.

Enjolras hears Valjean breathing raggedly just behind him, sees his father anxiously turn away for a few seconds, pulling out first one pistol and then a second against advancing naval officers.

“It’s you and me again isn’t it, Javert?” Enjolras asks. “It always comes down to this.”

Javert doesn’t answer, striking again and Enjolras lets Javert’s sword slide off his own. His eyes flicker down to Javert’s hand, which holds the hilt so tightly his knuckles pop.

“Your grip’s too strong,” Enjolras says, his mouth repeating Javert’s own words from so many years ago. Javert’s eyes drift back over toward Valjean and Enjolras steps forward then lunges, noticing a weak spot in Javert’s stance. He swings, his cutlass slicing against Javert’s side, shallow but stinging.

“Do you want me to kill you, _Captain_ Enjolras?” Javert snarls, ignoring the wound but for a brief press of his hand to his ribcage.

“You can’t live with it if you do,” Enjolras says, their swords crossing again as they circle each other. Somewhere off in the distance he hears Courfeyrac’s voice through the din, shouting orders on the _Liberte_ , a tinge of hope in his voice. When he dares glance over through a break in the cloud of cannon fire and gun smoke, he sees a crack in the foremast of the _Navigator_. In his mind’s eye he sees Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Gavroche calling out orders on the gun deck, ordering more of the chain shot that did the job. Javert presses with his cutlass, drawing Enjolras’ attention back. “You can’t survive it if you kill me, if you kill my father.”

“Who says I want to survive it?” Javert shouts, the words cutting into the air, an odd silence following after them in the brief absence of cannons.

“Javert,” Enjolras says, firm, but overflowing with compassion, an ache in his chest for the man he played with beneath the starlight that first night.

He’s not allowed to finish.

Javert comes at him, the madness in his eyes giving off sparks. It lends him a frenzied strength, but Enjolras raises his cutlass horizontally, deflecting the blow and driving it down, though he’s not able to avoid injury entirely; the tip of Javert’s sword swipes across his stomach, cutting through the white shirt and leaving a thin trail of blood. An indignant rage fills Enjolras up to the brim and he swings his sword toward Javert’s shoulder, wounding him deeper than before. He wants to help Javert, but he feels the calm leaving him, feels his logic leaving him, rushing forward on a wave of negative emotion instead of the compassion he walked in with. He meets Javert strike for strike, keeping up with his speed but not giving into his feverish movements, watching every lunge, timing every swing of the sword.

Javert retaliates for the shoulder wound, the flat of his blade cutting the top of Enjolras’ hand when he presses down, their swords almost hilt to hilt. Enjolras swings with his fist rather than his sword, connecting with Javert’s cheek, hearing Bahorel’s voice in his head.

_Loose knuckles, not tight. Hurts you less._

“You foolish boy,” Javert snarls, placing his hand on his cheek, scowling. “You really are a monster, aren’t you?”

_Monster._

The word sits heavy on his chest.

He tried to tell himself he didn’t care if people called him a monster. He’s told his father as much, firmly.

_I am willing to take on whatever mantle is required. If the world needs to see me and people like me as monsters until the truth is revealed to as many as possible and they see who the real monsters are, I will do it. And I won’t regret._

He tried to tell himself he didn’t care if Javert called him a monster.

_You have killed Rene Enjolras with his happy consent and replaced him with this…monster._

Memories smash together in his head, memories of the slaves chained in the hold of the _Navigator_ like cattle, memories of Javert sitting with him beneath the stars, shame in his voice as he uttered the word _Romani_.

Javert thought his birth made him a monster, and the idea makes Enjolras’ stomach roil.

Society melded Javert into its perfect soldier, telling him to deny the monstrous qualities this cultivated in favor of chasing those _they_ deemed monsters, turning the awkward young man Enjolras met into a cold, sometimes cruel, officer. Javert had given his permission, but Enjolras sees now, more than ever, the wounds that left behind.

Enjolras remembers one of his first voyages as captain of the _Liberte_ , remembers Captain Benjamin’s words.

_I’m sure you are aware of the fear you spread, the ghost stories and the tall tales superstitious sailors make up in their minds about pirate ships. But when they see your blood spill onto this deck, they’ll see you are nothing more than a man like any of us. A man turned into a monster, but who is mortal even still. I will show them that a monster can be slain._

His own words.

_Interesting that you think we’re the monsters._

His skin flushes hot to the touch, and he cannot separate out his thoughts, cannot hear his father’s shouts or Valjean’s, cannot even see the battle around him. All he sees is Javert and all the hope, all the love he sunk into the relationship years after it fell apart. He sees the choices Javert made.

God, he wishes he could regret it, and he _can’t_.

He wanted to save Javert and when he looks at the man in front of him, he fears Javert is _gone_.

“Do you want the _monster_ Javert?” Enjolras shouts, and he barely recognizes his own voice, as if Javert’s madness is contagious. “So be it.”

Javert jumps, startled at the words, a realization spreading across his face but Enjolras cannot register it, swinging his sword instead, the breeze howling around him, rushing into his ears. All he hears is the rapid clang of their swords, over and over and over again, his eyes flicking down toward Javert’s feet when he can spare a second. The clash of swords around him grows louder, his memory pushing into the present, and he hears wood clattering together, mixing with the sounds of metal on metal.

_Could you teach me about swords?_

_Well, with your permission sir. Then I would not mind._

The moment Javert slows, Enjolras notices.

He pushes Javert’s sword down until he’s forced to drop it, Enjolras’ own sword pointing at Javert’s chest.

“Don’t move, Javert,” Enjolras says.

Javert breathes hard, eyes moving away from Enjolras over toward Admiral Adams shouting orders on the _Majesty_ , expression frantic as the _Navigator_ starts taking some water over the tilting bow, the crack in the foremast widening. When Javert looks back, sweat dripping down his face, his eyes glassy with grief, he does something risky; he reaches out, grabbing a tight hold of Enjolras’ still sensitive arm.

_Be careful,_ Joly warned before the battle. _I’m releasing you for combat because I have to, but the muscles in that arm are still healing._

_I should have seen it coming after Admiral Adams_ , Enjolras thinks, a stifled shout pushing past his lips.

He tries kicking Javert out of instinct but Javert’s hold throws off his balance and he crashes to the deck, his father and Valjean’s shouts mixing into an incoherent mess around him. Javert doesn’t hesitate, pulling out his pistol, leaving his back without guard. Enjolras keeps hold of his cutlass but Javert pins his arm at the crook, and he cannot break free. Javert leans over him, knees pressing into his sides.

“Rene!” he hears Combeferre scream from somewhere nearby, words smacking into the sound of his pistol going off.

“Don’t come any closer,” Javert says as Michel and Valjean both approach. “I am warning you.”

Javert turns back toward Enjolras, placing the pistol against his head, his hand less than steady. Enjolras forces calm into his own breathing; he doesn’t want this to be the end, but if it _is_ the end, he finds he doesn’t have a single regret. He closes his eyes, seeing the future he so believes in, all bathed in a warm, stunning light. Clarity reasserts itself, the rage dying away. He thinks of the night he escaped Port Royal with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the sky exploding with stars, their freedom in the wind. He remembers their first day on Nassau, remembers Cosette’s beautiful smile and Feuilly’s warm, generous welcome. He thinks of finding Chantal, and the unrelenting joy in her eyes. He thinks of calling the officers’ roll when he was named captain of the _Liberte_ , his friends surrounding him. He thinks of his words before the last battle, remembers the pride in Valjean and Fantine’s eyes, and how much that meant to him.

_It is my hope that we will live to see another day, to fight another hour, because every last one of you standing here matters to the world and its accomplishments. But if we lose our lives here today, what shall we die for? The freedom and redemption of the human race. And nothing less._

He remembers his mother stroking his face as he fell asleep after Javert shot him, remembers her hand in his the night he ran away. He remembers his father entering his room in Nassau.

_Oh my boy, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

He remembers the bonfire on the beach, a brightness in both his parents’ eyes, the laughter of his friends, Valjean’s gentle hand on his cheek, urging him home before he fell asleep on the sand.

Javert was the last piece. The last stubborn, immovable piece, refusing even as he crumbled from the inside out.

Enjolras opens his eyes and looks right at Javert, feeling the muzzle of the pistol pressing harder into his skull. Javert looks away, finger lingering on the trigger.

“It was always going to come to this, wasn’t it Javert?” Enjolras asks, and Javert’s eyes shut against the emotion in his voice. “Down to the monsters and the men, and the battle over who was which. Neither of us has to be the monster, Javert. It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Javert let him go, dammit!” Michel shouts, his words echoed by Valjean, but the gun’s too close to his head and their position on the deck too awkward to wrestle it from his hand.

"Look at me, Javert," Enjolras says, low, only heard over the shouts of his father and Valjean because Javert's so close.

Javert's eyes remain fixed on the horizon.

"Look at me if you're going to kill me!" Enjolras shouts, feeling a boiling hot moisture growing in his eyes. "You owe me that or you really are a coward."

Javert's eyes dart back over, and Enjolras meets them, refusing to blink.

"Rene, _please_..."

"No," Enjolras insists. "If you pull that trigger you will look at me when you do it."

Javert tears his eyes away again, breathing in deep, but a broken sob comes out the other end.

“I wish I’d never played with you that night,” Javert says, hoarse, his grip on the pistol slackening. “You’ve ruined me. You’ve ruined me.”

Javert removes his hand from the crook of Enjolras’ arm, but Enjolras doesn’t dare move, not with the pistol still so close to his head. Javert’s fingers move toward Enjolras’ neck, and the latter tenses, not sure what Javert’s doing, but they only rest there lightly. Enjolras sees tears in his eyes, and with them comes the young man Enjolras met so long ago, a child’s heart sensing a lonely sailor who needed a friend.

“The noose _hurts_ , Rene,” Javert says. “I wanted…why are you always running toward it? Why won’t you run away instead?”

Around them, the light starts dying, the sun sinking beneath the water, some more stubborn stars already appearing in the sky. The air reeks of gunpowder and smoke, but Enjolras’ trained ear hears less cannon fire, hears the frantic footsteps of men on what he thinks must be the _Navigator_ , the entire hull giving a stomach-dropping creak.

“They will crush you, one day,” Javert says, and Enjolras wonders at the use of _they._ “I don’t want to see it.”

“No they won’t,” Enjolras replies, hearing Valjean’s footsteps creeping up behind him, seeing his father’s shadow approaching, careful.

The gun slips entirely from Javert’s hand now, but he doesn’t move away from Enjolras.  

“You’re not the monster,” Javert whispers. “I am.”

Enjolras feels Valjean pulling him up from the deck and out of Javert’s grasp, holding him by the back of his coat. Javert seizes his cutlass again, but it makes little difference as Michel pulls him back, putting a tight arm around Javert’s waist, pinning his sword arm. He pulls his own cutlass out, placing it flat against Javert’s chest.

"You've got blood on your face," Valjean says, gentle, trying to wipe it off with his own coat sleeve.

“I wanted to help you,” Enjolras says, his head spinning, only feeling the warm trickle of blood near his forehead as Valjean tries cleaning the small wound.

“You did, son,” Valjean says, sincere. “You did. Just…breathe for a moment, Rene. Please do that for me.”

Enjolras complies, inhaling deeply and releasing the air.

“This is not like fights we’ve had before,” Valjean says, running a quick thumb across his cheek. “It could never be.”

Valjean releases the hold on his coat but still stands close.

“That is enough, Nicholas,” Michel says, holding the same stance, tears pooling in his eyes.

“I have orders,” Javert insists, his voice cracking.

“I know,” Michel says, a sob trying to mar his words, but he swallows it back.

“Valjean did this,” Javert mutters, making his first attempt at breaking free, but Michel pulls him tighter.

“Valjean wants to help you just like I do, just like Rene does, and like your mother does,” Michel says, and when Enjolras looks around, he sees some of the naval officers faltering in their fight as they look at their captain’s circumstance. “But if you keep doing this, I cannot promise your survival.”

“Sir,” Javert tries.

“Please don’t make me do this,” Michel pleads, tears breaking loose. “Please god, Nicholas, don’t make me kill you to protect Rene. Don’t force that terrible choice on me, because I know what my answer will be. Please, my friend. I am begging you.”

Enjolras sees the fighting on the deck of the _Misericorde_ cease even further, and there’s a pause in the cannon fire from the _Majesty_ , though echoes of the weapons from the _Liberte_ still resound around him. A strangled cry bursts from Javert’s lips, nearly drowned out by the ominous, sickening sound of the _Navigator’s_ foremast breaking and falling, men dashing out of the way of its ire as it crashes to the deck, smashing part of the railing. Michel looks over, grief splashed across his face at the sight, Arthur’s shadow visible in his expression. The sound of Javert’s cutlass clattering to the deck draws Enjolras’ eyes back to the matter at hand.

“Make it quick,” Javert says, sounding more like himself, somehow. “I know it won’t be easy for you, but if I don’t suffer long, then you may rest easy.”

“You have dropped your weapon, Nicholas,” Michel says, words broken up. “I am not going to kill you. I don’t _want_ to kill you. I would not _rest easy_.”

“I have failed to complete my orders,” Javert says, a tremble in his voice again. “And you have won. It is just.”

“Nicholas,” Michel says, pained. “If you are in this much agony over the thought of killing me, of killing Rene or Valjean, why would you think it would _ever_ be easy for me to do the same?”

“It is my right Michel,” Javert says. “To die with honor.”

“There is no honor in senseless killing,” Michel argues. “Ever. Especially not between those who love one another.”

Michel’s grip on Javert loosens and he slides out of it, falling to his knees on the deck.

In his peripheral vision, Enjolras sees Admiral Adams and his grandfather approaching slowly from the _Majesty_.

Then Javert’s hands are grasping at the edges of Michel’s coat, tangled, knotted strings of words emerging from his mouth.

“I wish I didn’t love Rene,” Javert says, sounding more as if he’s talking to himself than to Michel. “I wish I didn’t love you. But I can’t kill you. I can’t. I can’t.”

“I know my lad,” Michel says, more tears flooding down his cheeks, understanding.

“Valjean was right,” Javert says, hands grasping the coat tighter. “I hate it. It doesn’t make sense. But he is. I’m weak.”

“No,” Enjolras says, tentatively approaching, but he’s still shaking. “You aren’t.”

“Rene,” Javert says, and in another time there would have been the sound of a smile in the name. Now, there’s pain and frustration, but the sound of real affection sucks the breath out of Enjolras’ lungs. “Michel,” he continues. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Valjean approaches, careful.

“Valjean,” Javert says, sounding like a child. “Why won’t you ever kill me?”

Valjean isn’t given a chance to answer.

“Captain Javert!” Admiral Adams says, storming up, his voice explosive. Behind him, men jump ship from the _Navigator_ to the _Majesty_ , the former unstable from the fallen foremast and damage to the rigging on the mainmast, some of it starting to sink past the waterline. “What is the meaning of this?”

Javert looks at Admiral Adams, but cannot make words come out.

“I will have you flogged and thrown out the service, if you don’t get up this instant!” Admiral shouts.

“You will not,” Michel says, a growl in his voice.

“You lying, black-hearted rogue,” Admiral Adams turning on Michel. “I thought better of you than this.”

“Let him, Michel,” Javert says. “Just let him. I haven’t done my duty, it is the way of things.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Michel says, Javert’s hands still grasping the bottom of his coat.

"You are doing him a disservice, Michel," Admiral Adams says, toning down his rhetoric. "There will be very little I can do to prevent a capital sentence coming down on his head if I report the truth of what happened here, should I survive this encounter. They will think him nothing more than your loyal dog, which appears to be more of the truth than I hoped. Failure is one thing, being complicit in piracy is something else. I told Baron Travers Javert would do his duty. I vouched for him to the Admiralty. I put my personal efforts into his rise, and enthusiastically so. I will not go down because of a gypsy who has entirely misplaced his loyalties, forgotten his duty, and sunk to depravity.”

"You would rather him be _your_ loyal dog is the truth of it, a crude phrasing if I ever heard one," Michel answers, anger splitting his words at the insults. “Then you would not mind at all.”

"I would _rather_ him do his duty," Admiral Adams says, growing angry again. “He has _always_ done his duty.”

"If you wanted us captured you should have sent someone else, but instead you listened to my father in law and put Javert to an impossible, cruel test,” Michel says, resting his hand on Javert’s cheek before helping him up, and Enjolras feels a very strong sense of pride at seeing his father take this stand against Admiral Adams. “For nothing more than to prove himself to you. You should be ashamed of yourself, sir. I’m afraid I thought better of _you_.”

 “I should have known he could never deny you,” Admiral Adams says, pressing the matter, but guilt makes his expression uglier. “You and your worthless son.”

Michel steps forward, red flooding into his face, then stops himself, rage in his eyes. “You go too far sir,” he says, but stays in place.

“That is enough,” Valjean says, stepping up and putting a hand on Javert’s back. The fighting dies down further in the wake of the _Navigator’s_ fate and the happenings on the _Misericorde._ Enjolras spots several of his friends clambering on deck, poised for action if necessary, Prouvaire, Cosette, and Grantaire among them.

“You don’t have a say in the matter, _captain_ ,” Admiral Adams says, spitting. “Javert is my officer, and you nothing more than a black convict who thinks himself above the law.”

“He is not your officer anymore,” Enjolras says, stepping in front of Valjean. “You have lost. Or did you miss one of your ships half sunk?”

Admiral Adams ignores him, turning toward Javert.

“Captain Javert,” he says, some regret in his face when he sees how broken Javert looks, but he does not forgive the transgression. “Are you coming with me or not? If not, then you will be considered complicit in piracy.”

Javert stares at him breaths uneven, looking sorely tempted.

“No,” he says, hoarse. He says nothing else.

“I hope you are happy that you’ve ruined a man who was once a fine officer,” Admiral Adams says in response to Enjolras’ earlier question. “You, and your band of pirates.”

“We have not ruined him,” Enjolras says. “And I would suggest you not speak that way again.”

But Admiral Adams doesn’t answer, his eyes leaving Enjolras and going toward something off in the distance, real fear manifesting in his expression.

Sails.

Bellamy’s sails, not a half hour away with the wind.

Enjolras nearly grins, but then he hears the cock of a pistol just behind him.

It’s then he realizes he doesn’t know where his grandfather’s gone.

He hears Courfeyrac’s voice on the breeze, calling out Combeferre’s name.

Enjolras turns, seeing his grandfather pointing a pistol at Combeferre’s back, only inches away, Combeferre’s own pistol in his hands, half-reloaded.

* * *

"Trying to shoot me in the back," Michel hears Combeferre say, his words calm but sharp as a lash. "Cowardly. Just like you've always been."

“And you the devil you’ve always been,” Baron Travers says, stepping closer, the muzzle of the pistol an inch from Combeferre’s coat. “But you will go to hell, today.”

Michel wonders why his father in law hesitates, then realizes abruptly that he’s never actually killed anyone before. Slaves had died in his care from neglect, but he’d never put his hands to someone directly.

“No matter what you believe so far as my fate and the afterlife,” Combeferre says, the barest tremor in his voice, and Michel watches him meet Enjolras’ eyes, shaking his head once when Enjolras steps forward. “You have still lost the war you waged against your grandson and against me. Not a thing will change that.”

The moment Baron Travers presses the pistol into Combeferre’s back, Michel steps forward, placing a hand on Enjolras’ chest as he tries following.

“Rene, Rene no,” Michel hears Astra’s say, appeared from below. She wraps an arm around Enjolras’ waist, knowing as Michel does that any word from him will only make Baron Travers’ fire faster.

Still, Baron Travers hesitates, eyes flickering over to Michel and Astra; Michel recognizes the expression on his father in law’s face, sees the wheels moving behind his eyes.

He wants something.

“Andrew,” Michel says, close enough that he hears Combeferre’s quickened breaths. “Put the gun down.”

“Oh Michel,” Baron Travers says, sickly sweet. “What a disappointment you are. This doesn’t quite seem like France to me, did your ship get lost?”

“What do you _want_ , Andrew?” Michel asks, impatient.

“Give me my daughter,” Baron Travers says, eyes landing on Astra, the gleam in his eyes sending a chill down Michel’s spine. “And I will release your precious mulatto boy.”

Michel hears the lie wrapped tight around the words, poisonous.

“So you can lock her up in an asylum?” Combeferre says. Michel sees his eyes narrow, the words unforgiving. “She’s been put through enough because of you.”

The next few moments are a blur. Astra lets go of Enjolras, stepping forward in offering. Enjolras follows her, stopped by Bahorel, who has emerged from the gun deck, as well as Courfeyrac. Baron Travers presses the pistol harder into Combeferre’s back. Reasoned thought abandons Michel entirely.

There is only a single choice.

A wave of memory crashes down into his mind.

Shouting at Arthur.

The storm.

The bang of the thunder.

The lightning illuminating the sky.

 The mast cracking.

Arthur's voice desperately calling out his name.

_Michel!_

Familiar hands shoving him out of the way.

The mast breaking entirely and falling without mercy on Arthur.

The blood spattered across the deck.

Arthur struggling for breath as he lay in bed, his skin mottled with bruises.

_Take care of him Michel. Say that you will take care of him._

Arthur’s hand holding tight to his fingers until Michel felt the life leave his body.

Rene’s words to him that fateful night, years later.

_Arthur Combeferre would be ashamed of you._

Frantz’s words, so many years later.

_It is going to take time for me to trust you. To forgive you. But I think my father would be proud of you today._

The things he said to Chantal that day on the beach in Nassau.

_We fought before he was struck by that mast. We fought over the slave trade. Fought over everything he was right about. And he pushed me out of the way of that mast anyway, even if he knew he might not get out of the way in time. If anyone deserves to be sitting here now, it was him. It should have been him._

_I’m sorry Chantal. For everything I’ve done. That you lost him because he chose to save me._

Chantal’s reply.

_Perhaps he wanted to make sure you had your chance to change. He knew you could do it._

Arthur’s face appears as clear in his mind as ever, his smile bright, and always warm. Always kind. Michel regrets ever disappointing him.

But he will not disappoint him now.

_Affect my opinion of and affection for you? He couldn’t, Arthur. Please don’t worry about that. You’re my dearest friend._

_And you mine. I’m afraid you’re rather stuck with me now, it’s been too long._

Michel steps closer, his hand grabbing the side of the pistol, scrambling for a firm hold, shoving Combeferre to the side just slightly, but it’s not quite enough to get him out of the path of danger. Baron Travers doesn’t let go, and they wrestle over the weapon. Michel pulls the muzzle down.

In the chaos, Baron Travers’ hand slips against the trigger.

It sounds far away, but Michel thinks he hears Javert shouting his name.

_Michel!_

The shot goes off.

Something burns hot and ferocious in Michel’s stomach.

He reaches into his coat, pulling out the pocket watch always resting inside.

It’s still intact, but covered in something wet and hot and red.

His blood, he realizes, belatedly. His own blood.

A shout he recognizes as his own bursts from his lips.

White-hot pain moves from the wound and outward. Overwhelming. Nauseating.

His legs crumple beneath him and he falls to the deck, Combeferre dropping to his knees beside him, shocked.

“Sir…” he tries, for lack of anything else to call him, because he’s no longer captain or commodore.

“Just Michel, Frantz,” Michel answers, reaching for his hand, trying to remember to breathe. “Just Michel.”

The pain stabs through his stomach. The bullet hit somewhere near the center, though he feels no pool of blood coming from his back: lodged inside, he thinks. He’s seen plenty of gut shots to know men last from a few hours to a few days, but they do not last longer.

Another figure drops down at his side, hand going to the wound.

Rene.

“Papa,” he says, very soft, looking across at Combeferre before his eyes rove toward his grandfather, who stands there with the pistol still in hand, frozen, the color receding quickly from his face.

“Grantaire, please go get Joly,” Combeferre calls out. “Quick as he may.”

The air around them smells like a battle, everything hazy. Still, no one moves. Fantine, Gavroche, Prouvaire, Bossuet, and Cosette walk around in a semi-circle, keeping back any naval officers who might get ideas.

“Thank you,” Combeferre says, reaching for Michel’s hand that still holds the pocket watch, recognizing the time-piece. Tears spill from his overfull eyes, dropping onto their joined hands and the watch. “My father would…he…” the words jumble together, and Combeferre halts, breathing in deep.

“It is only what you deserve from me,” Michel says, a cough marring his words. “I…” There’s the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

“Shhh,” Enjolras says, taking his other hand briefly. “Don’t talk too much.”

A third figure drops down.

"Michel, oh my god," Astra says, going to her knees near his head. She brushes his sweaty hair away from his eyes, her hands shaking. "Frantz," she says, looking over. "Are you all right darling?"

Combeferre doesn't answer at first, still staring at Michel, but he nods.

Then there’s a fourth figure.

Javert.

The growing starlight illuminates the silver strands in his hair, some of the sanity returning to his expression. Michel sees Rene rise up, stepping away and toward his grandfather. Javert seizes his wrist in protest, a flash of worry coming over his face. Enjolras flicks his wrist, shaking Javert off, anger in his eyes. He pauses, softening a fraction, taking Javert’s hand and placing it in Michel’s, pressing them together.

Before, Michel would have told Rene to stop, would have told him to stand down.

But now…

Now something overcomes him entirely, a trust in his son that cannot be damaged, cannot be rent apart. A trust in the man he has become. A trust in his ability to handle his grandfather.

Michel looks down at Javert's hand holding his, eyes sticking on the knuckles covered in dried blood, the injury done by his own cutlass. He runs his finger gently across the wounds, which draws Javert's gaze.

"Michel I..." Javert tries. "Do you wish me to go? I would understand if you did."

"No," Michel says, firm as he can manage. "Stay with me. Please."

"You have done Arthur proud," Javert chokes out.

Michel breathes in deep, a wave of pain overcoming him and he squeezes both Javert and Combeferre's hands, feeling Astra stroking his cheek.

Valjean doesn’t stop Rene, either, and the ships fall utterly silent as he approaches Baron Travers.

* * *

His grandfather flinches as Enjolras approaches. Admiral Adams stands close by, not moving, his eyes darting out every few seconds toward Bellamy’s approaching sails and toward the _Navigator_ , which is broken, half-sinking into the ocean.

“Now see here Rene,” Baron Travers says, hand trembling around the pistol. When his eyes glance over at Michel, he almost looks sorry.

Almost.

“What should I see, grandfather?” Enjolras says, laying into him with harsh, grating words. “That you just attempted to kill my dearest friend here before my eyes by shooting him in the back like a coward? That you would use him as a bargaining chip to take my mother and make her miserable? That you have…” he cannot say _killed my father_. Michel is not dead yet. Michel is…he swallows, choosing a different word. “ _Shot_ my father?”

“I am sorry, Rene,” Baron Travers says. “I suppose you think I’m pleased to see my family ripped to pieces, do you?”

“You are not sorry,” Enjolras says, stepping closer, and his grandfather pulls away. “You are frightened, and that is something entirely different.”

Any trace of softness leaves Baron Travers’ face now, his eyes narrowing.

“One day, my boy,” Baron Travers says, lingering on the endearment. “You will find a rope around your neck, mark my words. And when that day comes, as you choke on every sin you’ve committed, slowly and in agony, you will recall that I tried to save you from such a fate.”

Enjolras reaches forward in an instant, seizing his grandfather’s lapels.

“You have threatened everyone and everything I ever cared about. You were cruel to my mother. You have dared to treat the man who is like my brother as if he were nothing, well. _You_ are nothing, sir. You who have…” his voice breaks here, but he regains it. “Possibly taken my father from me. You, who have hurt countless people with your greed and your cruelty, who tried, every day of my life, to make me feel worthless and afraid,” Enjolras says, voice low with a rage that feels hot in his bones “And I’m saying if you do not leave this ship right now, I will kill you myself.”

His grandfather stares at him, the pistol in his hand dropping to the deck with a thud. He backs away toward the _Majesty_ with one last glance at Michel as he goes. Enjolras watches him catch Astra’s eye, and she glares back without a word.

Then, he’s gone.

Enjolras swings around toward Admiral Adams.

“I assume you know you have lost the battle,” Enjolras says. “You are one ship down, and we are soon to be three. If you choose to continue on, for the first time in my life, I will grant no quarter. Am I clear?”

“Quite clear,” Admiral Adams says, shame in his face.

“You will not tow the _Navigator_ away,” Enjolras says. “That is our prize.”

“But…” Admiral Adams tries.

“That ship will go down with my father,” Enjolras says, leaning in closer. “And it will go down on my terms, not yours. Do I need to repeat myself?”

“No,” Admiral Adams says.

“You have an hour to gather your dead and wounded,” Enjolras says. “Which is more than generous. Then, you will go. I hope that one day, Admiral Adams, you will learn to treat people better than you do at present.”

“And Captain Javert?” Admiral Adams asks, daring one last thing.

“He will not be returning with you,” Enjolras says, flat. “Now go.”

Admiral Adams doesn’t need to be told twice.

Enjolras feels a hand on his shoulder as Admiral Adams steps away.

“Rene,” Bahorel says, gentle. “What do you want me to do with the _Navigator_? Whatever you ask, I’ll do it.”

“Wait until everything and everyone is clear,” Enjolras says, reaching back and squeezing Bahorel’s hand. “Then destroy it. I won’t have even the chance of the navy taking that ship. Not now…not…”

“I understand,” Bahorel says. “Go.”

Enjolras nods, walking back over toward Michel. He watches Valjean and Fantine see to the cleanup, with Courfeyrac assisting in his place. Joly’s by Michel’s side now, directing Bossuet to hand him different instruments. When he sees Enjolras he rises, a hand brushing against Michel’s arm before he stands.

“Joly, what…” Enjolras says, but Joly rests his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, shaking his head.

“How long?” Enjolras asks.

“Men sometimes last a few days with a gut shot,” Joly says. “But at point blank range like that, I’d give him a day, at best. But with the pain he's in, I wouldn’t wish him that. He’ll go sometime in the night, at earliest, but also the kindest. There’s no exit wound, which stops some of bleeding, but I don’t see the point in extracting the bullet, because it would only be more pain for him, for not much purpose.”

“Thank you, Joly,” Enjolras says.

“I’m sorry, Enjolras,” Joly says. “Truly.”

Enjolras puts a hand on Joly’s face, then walks back over toward his father. Javert doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to truly notice Enjolras’ reappearance. He’s shaking, and, Enjolras realizes, crying. His hair’s fallen loose from its tie, his eyes red.

He drops down next to his father again on the same side as Combeferre and opposite Javert. His eyes roves over the wound now that Michel’s shirt is open, the skin smeared with blood. Astra still sits near Michel’s head, wetting his lips with a damp cloth and wiping away some of the blood collecting in the corners. He looks over at Combeferre, who looks back, sharing the same feeling, memories of Arthur’s loss clear in his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks.

“I’m not hurt,” Combeferre says, reaching out and pressing Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras squeezes back, then looks at his father as his mother’s hand moves away.

“Papa,” Enjolras says again, feeling the tears welling in his eyes, and he feels like he’s six-years old again,

He doesn’t want to cry here. Not now, on the deck visible to everyone.

But as his father’s hand comes up, touching his face, he loses any hope of preventing that.

“My boy,” Michel says, a smile cut through with pain flickering at his lips. “My Rene. You have taught me what it means to be a good man. You and Frantz both. Please know that.”

“Thank you for doing what you did,” Enjolras says, leaning over and resting his forehead against Michel’s. He feels his mother’s hand come to rest on his head, stroking his hair. “Thank you for stepping in for Frantz.”

“I had to,” Michel says, coughing again. “I had to.”

“I just got you back,” Enjolras says, hearing the sob in his voice, tears pouring hot and steady down his cheeks now, and he cannot recall the last time he cried like this. Not since he was very young, he’s certain.

“Don’t count me out just yet, son,” Michel says, trying to laugh. “I’ve a few hours yet.”

“Rene,” Astra says, voice unsteady. “You have to let Joly tend to him, darling.”

But Enjolras can’t let go.

“Rene,” Joly says, one hand on his back. “I just need to get him to your cabin, then you can sit with him, all right?”

Enjolras lets his mother carefully pull him back and into her arms. A thousand words come up his throat, but he cannot say any of them.

He sits in his mother’s embrace a moment and then stands up. Astra and Combeferre follow suit, but Javert remains crouched on the deck next to Michel, unmoving.

“Javert,” Enjolras says, willing steady words from his mouth. “They have to move him.”

Still nothing.

Enjolras reaches down, putting a hand on Javert’s arm. This jolts Javert from his numb state and he jerks away from the touch with violence, very nearly elbowing Enjolras in the face. He stands up, coming face to face with Enjolras.

“He’s _dying_ , Rene,” Javert says in a harsh whisper so Michel doesn’t hear.

“I _know_ ,” Enjolras says, holding onto his composure by his fingernails. “But we need to make him comfortable. He cannot stay here, on the deck. And neither can you.”

“You will not keep me from him Rene,” Javert says, but he’s more frightened than dangerous. “I was the one by his side for twelve years in your absence. _Twelve years_ Rene. Everyone else was gone, but I was there. He has been a part of my life since I was barely more than a boy.”

“I _know_ ,” Enjolras repeats, losing patience. “But we must all let Joly get him settled, and in the meantime I cannot have you roaming the ship.”

“And why not?” Javert snaps.

“What have you done today that would earn my trust?” Enjolras says.

“Are you dead?” Javert shoots back. “You look perfectly alive to me.”

“Are you truly telling me you believe yourself stable?” Enjolras retorts.

Javert looks away, not answering.

“We will not bicker in front of him,” Enjolras says. “Not now.”

“And I shall just have to trust that you will let me see him?” Javert asks.

“You should know me well enough to be sure I am not so cruel,” Enjolras says, feeling the tears filling his eyes again. “As to deny you that.”

Clearly sensing an argument, Valjean steps in, taking Javert’s wrist. To Enjolras’ surprise, Javert doesn’t pull away this time.

“I’ll take it from here, Rene,” Valjean says. “I’ll put him in the empty quarters on the _Liberte_ under guard until your father is settled. I’m leaving the _Misericorde_ in Fantine’s hands, so I might sail with you, if that’s all right.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says in response to both, squeezing Valjean’s fingertips.

He watches Joly direct several of the men to carry Michel to the captain’s cabin of the _Liberte_ , and Enjolras’ own bed. Bossuet assists, shooting Enjolras a sad smile, Astra following behind.

All the naval officers have vacated the _Navigator_ now, half of it sunk into the sea. Enjolras feels the hands of several of his friends press his shoulder as he stands there, trying to right his world; Cosette’s, gentle and worried; Prouvaire’s firm and combined with a kiss to his cheek; Eponine’s, quick but genuine; Grantaire’s hesitant at first, then warm; Gavroche tugs on the end of his hair with affection; Feuilly runs a hand across the back of his neck, following Valjean; Fantine presses a kiss to the side of his head.

They’d won, Enjolras realizes, a fact almost forgotten when he saw his father crumple to the deck. Enjolras knows better than to think the navy was not a constant threat, but it would put them off for some time, he hoped, and for the first time in years, the specter of his grandfather would not haunt him. He would go back to England, Enjolras suspects, the trail of gossip following behind him, his reputation in taters and nothing but his money for comfort.

The day was won. But soon, his father would be lost.

Enjolras walks to the _Liberte_ , Combeferre by his side. When they step on deck Courfeyrac meets them, his arms pulling them into a tight embrace.

The cannons roar once again, making the deck rumble beneath their feet, and there’s the sound of metal smashing into wood.

Courfeyrac holds them closer as the _Navigator_ turns into nothing more than planks of wood, sinking down to the bottom of the ocean beneath a sky full of stars.

* * *

**Aboard the Liberte.**

"I don't need you to patch me up, Valjean," Javert grumbles. They’re sitting in a tiny unused sleeping quarters, which Javert supposes is better than the brig.

"I believe you do," Valjean says, says, calm. "Unless you'd like to deal with infection, particularly with this shoulder wound."

"Well don't you have something better to do?" Javert asks. "You're the captain."

"Fantine has it handled," Valjean answers. “Jahni, hand me that larger bandage, would you?”

“I tried to kill you earlier,” Javert protests.

“I recall quite vividly, yes,” Valjean says, looking closer at the wound over the tops of his spectacles.

“I shot at your nephew here last time.”

“I have not forgotten,” Feuilly says, sharp, handing Valjean the requested bandage for Javert’s shoulder. “But to be quite fair about it, I shot at some of your men, inevitably. The casualties of war, isn’t it?”

“You think of this as a war, do you?” Javert asks.

“As long as king and country engage in the trade of human beings, among their many other crimes, yes,” Feuilly says, glaring at him, though there remains a hint of empathetic curiosity in his eyes.

Javert’s too exhausted to answer that at present, his flicking over back toward Valjean, his fingers running over his aching jaw, a bruise blooming across the skin already.

“Did you teach Rene to throw a punch like that?” Javert.

“No,” Valjean says, chuckling, moving now to wrap a bandage around Javert’s knuckles, and a pang shoots through Javert’s stomach as he looks at them. “Bahorel did that.” He finishes wrapping the bandages around then turns, smiling at Feuilly. “I think that’s all for now Jahni, thank you. I’m sure you are necessary above.”

“You will be all right here?” Feuilly asks, worried.

“Quite all right,” Valjean says, pressing Feuilly’s hand.

Feuilly returns the smile, but he does glance back with concern before he shuts the door behind him.

“How long must I wait to see Michel?” Javert asks, impatient.

“Joly said he required three-quarters of an hour or so to get him settled without people hovering, so Bossuet and Astra are helping him,” Valjean answers.

“And where are Rene and Frantz?”

“Waiting and getting patched up like you, and directing the _Liberte_ off,” Valjean says.

“And where’s that adopted daughter of yours?”

“Cosette is with her mother on the _Misericorde_ ,” Valjean says, and Javert sees his eyes lighten at the mere mention of Cosette’s name.

_Am I a prisoner_ , is one question on Javert’s mind. _Where is my mother_ , another one, but he can barely comprehend anything other than Michel’s impending loss right now, can barely even encompass the world outside his current door, let alone the fact that he is definitely no longer a naval officer, but a man complicit with pirates.

“Javert,” Valjean says with that overwhelming kindness. “I am truly sorry about Michel.”

“Don’t, Valjean,” Javert says, looking away. “I can’t bear your sincerity right now.”

“I had a mentor, you know,” Valjean says, going forward anyway. “A man who meant a great deal to me, who changed my life, who taught me how to sail and to fight, who taught me about piracy, who helped me discover I could have a family. I was with him for a much shorter time, but his impact was still monumental.”

“That Myriel fellow,” Javert answers, half a mutter.

“Up until recently Myriel and Michel would have disagreed on a great deal,” Valjean says. “But they are the same in that they saw something in both you and I, are they not? Our lives would have been vastly different without them, and the things they taught us. The things they gave us.”

“Michel wants to change everything he taught me,” Javert says, the words tumbling out of their own accord.

He thinks again of his earlier vow to end his life, realizing he has not released the idea, despite the changed circumstance.

“I don’t think everything,” Valjean says. “But the things he has changed about himself, the new things he has learned, I think he would also like to teach you.”

“It’s too late,” Javert says, feeling the growing pressure behind his eyes.

“He is not gone yet,” Valjean says. “And it is never too late.”

A knock on the door interrupts Javert’s response and Enjolras enters, a fresh bandage on his hand, and another around his middle, visible through the shirt, the blood cleared away from his small head wound. Combeferre’s at his side, a bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“Joly says he’s ready for us now,” Enjolras says. “If you would like to come.”

Javert looks at him, wishing for something to say. But he’d placed a pistol to Rene’s head scarcely more than an hour ago, and words fail him. He’s angry at Rene, but he’s also half desperate for his forgiveness. A strange combination indeed.  

_You’re not the monster. I am._

He only nods, letting Enjolras and Combeferre lead the way.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *offers tissues*
> 
> If you're sad at me right now, know the decision to have this happen to Michel was not an easy one, and I honestly cried quite a bit writing this, so I am with you. But he will get a proper last couple of scenes next time round, so this isn't it. 
> 
> So as far as I can tell, there are either 3 chapters and an epilogue after this, or 4 chapters and an epilogue, just depending on how things go as I write. This chapter and the next are hard, but I promise upon the soul of Victor Hugo there will be joy after that. I know probably you don't believe me, but it's true!


	32. Book III (Swirling up from the Sea): Part 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michel faces his last hours, and the people in his life bid him farewell. After his father's death, Enjolras finds solace in the crew. Broken after Michel's death and his own choices, Javert finds himself caught between paths, wondering if he's more a monster than a man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Some suggested listening for this chapter if you are so inclined:
> 
> Cry for Judas / The Mountain Goats  
> Matthew 25:21 / The Mountain Goats  
> Elegy / Lisa Gerrard  
> Calm Under the Waves / Maria Mena  
> Reflecting Light / Sam Philips

**Aboard the Liberte.**

Michel asks to see Enjolras and Combeferre first. Joly meets them at the door to their cabin, wringing his hands as he shuts the door behind him.

“He’s in pain,” Joly says. “More pain than I’d like, but I think the Laudanum is at least helping. He wouldn’t take as much as I wished because he wanted to be alert.”

“How long?” Combeferre asks, feeling his stomach twist up in knots.

“A few hours,” Joly says. “Sometime in the very early hours of the morning, I’d expect.”

“Thank you, Joly,” Enjolras says, pressing their friend’s shoulder.

“Of course,” Joly answers, smiling sadly at them both. “Valjean’s sailing with us?”

“He’s at the wheel,” Combeferre answers, eyes flickering over to Bossuet, who emerges from the cabin, bloody rags in his hands. It’s one of the rare times Combeferre’s seen him without his smile.

“Go in,” Astra says. “Javert and I will wait outside here.” Her eyes dart over to Courfeyrac, who also approaches. “And Auden, apparently.”

“Thought I’d keep you company now that the ship’s off,” Courfeyrac says. “She’s sailing well and there’s no weather awaiting us, according to the man Bellamy sent over, so the journey should be fine.”

His eyes rove over Javert, unsmiling.

Astra pats Courfeyrac’s hand, and he looks over them, making a gesturing motion with his hand in reassurance. Combeferre feels Bossuet’s hand brush against his arm before they go inside, shutting the door behind them.

“Boys,” Michel says, his voice raspy. He lays in Enjolras’ bed, his old shirt replaced with a new one. Joly’s cleaned the area around the wound thoroughly but Combeferre sees the blood seeping through the bandage, Michel’s face paled significantly. “Sit, won’t you?”

Enjolras and Combeferre sit on what little room remains at the edge of the bed, and Combeferre finds he has a hard time looking at Michel. He’d loved Michel so much as a boy, and in so many ways; as the dearest friend to his father, as Rene’s father, and then as a stand in for his own, after Arthur died. But then came the crushing disappointment, the anger, the hurt. Then upon their reunion, yet more of that. But then he’d surrendered to Valjean. Then he’d come to Nassau. There was a rekindling of that old feeling, and now it was being ripped away. Combeferre knows Michel doesn’t regret taking the bullet for him, but he still can’t quite make sense of the tumult of emotions it leaves him with.

“Frantz,” Michel says, putting a clammy hand over his. “I haven’t done a thing today I regret. Please know that.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, blinking. When he looks over at Enjolras, he notices his friend’s eyes are dry, the tears from earlier gone. Shock, Combeferre thinks, the analytical, scientific parts of his brain trying to take over from the well of emotion he feels building in the depth of his chest.

“I couldn’t…let my father in law kill you,” Michel says, struggling with the words, taking a deep breath.

“I know,” Combeferre repeats, squeezing Michel’s hand. “But I didn’t want it to be like this. But I… _thank you_.”

“It is only what I owe you,” Michel says, repeating his words from earlier. “And what I owe your father. I loved him very dearly,” Michel continues, and Combeferre thinks he hears something else in the words, something not deeper, but different, though there is no time to ask questions. “And I have loved you, since the day I first saw you. You were three, and I’d just moved Rene and Astra to Jamaica. You were smart, even then, studying everything around you with bright eyes. That morning, when you saw the slaves, I…I am sorry, Frantz. For that and everything leading up to it. For making you feel lesser. ”

“I know,” Combeferre says a third time. He hates that he’s repeating the same words over and over, but his mind won’t fall into place. The wound that opened up that day on the _Navigator_ might never fully heal, but Michel had _tried_ , and now that effort was cut short, the injustice of it thrumming in Combeferre’s bones, his hatred for Baron Travers darkening his mind. There were times, especially when they attacked slave ships, where he saw Enjolras tempted to break Valjean’s always give quarter rule, but Combeferre always reminded him why it was so important. Yet he certainly hadn’t blamed Enjolras for threatening Admiral Adams with no quarter if he’d chosen to continue. Not today.

 “Thank you for coming to Nassau,” he continues. He takes a page from his father’s book, channeling the emotional easiness he admired but always found harder in practice, leaning forward and pressing a light kiss to Michel’s forehead.

Michel reaches up, his hand brushing against Combeferre’s hair, some of the light returning to his eyes. “You are a superb navigator in more ways than one,” Michel says. “Keep reading, my lad. Keep learning. The stars are yours, too, and I should never have tried to keep you from them. I want to give you this,” he continues, pulling out the pocket-watch Arthur gave him on the occasion of Rene’s birth. “To remember me by. To remember your father by.”

“I will,” Combeferre says, accepting the familiar item, which is still bloodstained. “I promise.”

Combeferre grasps Michel’s hand tightly and then releases it, letting him turn back toward Enjolras. Michel puts both of his hands out for Enjolras to take.

“My boy,” Michel says, and Enjolras shuts his eyes at hearing the endearment. “My Rene.”

“Papa,” Enjolras replies, and Combeferre’s reminded of the shy but eager boy he met that day in Port Royal when they were eight-years-old. He knows painfully well what the loss of a father feels like, and he doesn’t wish it on his friend. They’d been inevitably wrapped up in the relationship between their fathers and in their legacies, so similar and so different from them all at once.

“You are the man I always wanted to be,” Michel says, eyes glassy with tears.

Enjolras waves him off, and Michel holds his hands tighter.

“You are,” Michel says, firm. “For a long time, I thought my career might be my legacy. Then you were born, and I knew for certain it was you. Then when I lost you _I_ was lost, too. But you were ahead of me, you knew what was right. _You_ are my greatest legacy, Rene. And I am so proud of you.”

Enjolras pulls Michel’s hand toward him, kissing his knuckles.

“I wanted you to come,” Enjolras says, voice shaking, but his eyes are still dry. “I always did. Even years later.”

“I am sorry it took what it did for me to come to you,” Michel says. “I am sorry for every bruise your grandfather left and every time I didn’t stand up for you. You have built this life, this family, and you have fought for those who needed it when it took me years to find the courage.”

“But you did find it,” Enjolras says, voice grown husky.

“Because of you,” Michel says, moving one hand cradling Enjolras’ face. “I love you, Rene. With every part of me I love you.”

“I love you too,” Enjolras says, his blue eyes like shards of broken glass.

“I hope one day when you hurt less, you will be able to talk to Javert,” Michel says. “I know that will take time because I know what he has done to you. But keep it in mind for me?”

“I will,” Enjolras promises. “I will.”

“I have something for you,” Michel says, patting the other side of the bed for something Combeferre didn’t realize was there.

Michel’s sword.

“Hand me that Frantz, if you would?” Michel asks, and Combeferre places the sword in Michel’s hands.

“You are the only person to whom I could ever bequeath this,” Michel says, curling Enjolras’ fingers around the sheath. “A piece of me to carry with you into the battles I wish I could fight by your side.”

Enjolras doesn’t respond verbally but rests his forehead on Michel’s shoulder instead, Michel’s hand fiddling with his son’s hair, soothing.

“You have a light, Rene,” Michel says. “Don’t ever douse it.”

“I won’t,” Enjolras says, sitting up again. “I promise you that. I…thank you for coming to Nassau. For joining our crew. I cannot…”

“I know my boy,” Michel says, tilting Enjolras’ chin up and smiling at him, bright for a dying man. “I know. You raise that flag of yours high. You fight alongside and for those people I spent so many years hurting and oppressing. There are so many things to fight for, so many hills to climb for so many people.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre puts a gentle hand on his back as Michel’s grip on his hands tightens. “There always will be.”

“I will not live to see the end of the slave trade or impressment,” Michel says, meeting his son’s eyes, and in that moment, Combeferre sees the same gleam within both. “You may not, either. But you have taught me that they will end, one day, because people are willing to do what it takes to end them, across the generations. People like the two of you.”

“Yes,” Enjolras repeats, the foundation of his voice giving out, but he looks as solid as Combeferre always remembered him, even now.

Michel stops, reaching over and taking one of Combeferre’s hands, retaining hold of one of Enjolras’. “You two keep taking care of each other, all right?”

Combeferre can’t help but be reminded of those last moments with his own father, the words resounding similarly in his head.

“We will,” Enjolras says, a smile breaking onto his face as he looks over at Combeferre. “We have never failed at that, I hope.”

“No,” Combeferre says, the smile echoed in his own face. “We haven’t.”

Michel squeezes each of their hands then releases them, a cough rattling his body. Enjolras tilts a glass of water toward his lips, helping him swallow.

“If you could go get your mother for me I would appreciate it,” he says to Enjolras. “Hopefully soon you’ll have her turned into a full-fledged pirate.”

“I’m sure she’d like that,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras places one more kiss to his father’s temple then exits with Combeferre. As they go, Combeferre slides his hand into Enjolras’, holding on tight.

* * *

When Courfeyrac’s called away for a few minutes, Astra finds herself sitting alone with Javert.

It’s odd seeing him sitting on the floor, black hair loose around his shoulders, his posture slumped. Part of her fills up to the brim with a thick, hot, boiling anger when she lays eyes on him; he tried to kill her son. Even if Rene forgives him, she’s not certain she ever will. Another part feels empathy for their shared situation, and yet another the old fondness from so many years ago for the young who befriended her lonely child. She thinks of Tiena and their new friendship, remembering her choice to stay behind on Nassau because she couldn’t bear Javert’s rejection or his death.

“Your mother will be very glad to see you,” Astra says before she overthinks.

Javert jerks, clearly not expecting conversation from her.

“Given our last interactions, I am seriously uncertain that’s true,” he says.

“Well you really are a fool then,” Astra snaps.

“Madame Enjolras,” he tries, forced politeness in his voice.

“Oh don’t stand on ceremony,” she interrupts. “There’s no need for it now, just call me Astra.”

“Fine then,” Javert says, exhaustion in his voice. “ _Astra_ , I’m not certain my mother would like to see me at all.”

“I’ve only known her for a short time,” Astra says, injecting patience into her tone. “But I do know she’s been waiting for years to have you come to her willingly. She misses you. Desperately.”

“No one should miss me,” Javert mutters, more to himself than to her.

“Well she does,” Astra insists. “And Michel missed you too, after he came to Nassau. He hated leaving you behind.”

“I’m sorry for my part in this,” Javert says after a beat, and the deadened look in his eyes concerns her through the haze of anger. “I cannot deny responsibility for what’s happened to Michel. I…he…”

“I know how much he means to you,” Astra says, softer. “I do. And I…I know you may doubt this, but I do love him too. In my way.”

“I know,” Javert says, surprising her.

There’s not time for more words as the door opens, revealing Enjolras and Combeferre, and Astra’s ushered in next. Combeferre looks like his mind spins a mile a minute, thoughts flying through his eyes behind his spectacles. Enjolras’ eyes are dry, but there’s a far-away look in them. She approaches him before she goes inside, putting one hand on the side of his face, drawing his attention; she knows well the look he gets when he’s burying an overwhelming well of emotion, and she recognizes it now. There’s something in his hand.

Michel’s sword: in its new sheath without the East India markings, but she knows the gold and navy handle anywhere.

“His sword,” Astra breathes. “He gave it to you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, blinking as though he cannot quite adjust to the reality around him. “He gave Frantz his pocket watch. The one Arthur gave him.”

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” she says, kissing his forehead.

With that she goes inside, shutting the door behind her. Michel’s still laid in their son’s bed, but he looks paler than even a half hour ago, his eyes hazy with the medication. He inches over in the bed, making room for her, and she shifts her skirt, sitting down. She puts a hand on his forehead, smoothing his hair.

“Do you remember the month before Rene was born, and I was confined to my bed?” Astra asks. “It was such a cold winter that year, in England. And you’d sit there with me, reading for hours?”

“I remember,” Michel says, a faint smile on his lips. “I thought it was the least I could do, given you were the one carrying a small human being inside you. I didn’t have to do much after the initial, well…” he stutters, a blush tinting his cheeks. “You know.”

“I thought Frenchmen didn’t blush about _amour_ ,” Astra teases, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh,” Michel says, his laugh cut through with pain. “Goodness.”

“Arthur used to stop by too, and make me laugh,” Astra says. “And he kept you company and told you jokes while you waited outside when Rene was born. My father hated it.”

“He didn’t like that I’d named Arthur godfather,” Michel says. “I remember.”

“But he was the only natural choice,” Astra says, a pang of missing Arthur striking her. He’d been her friend too, and they’d shared plenty of worried conversations about Michel in the later years. It was easy to see why Chantal and Michel both could have fallen in love with him when she watched him play on the beach with Frantz and Rene. “My father liked very little that brought anyone joy.”

“Frantz was born five months or so after,” Michel says. “I remember Arthur took leave to go be with Chantal.” He pauses, searching her face. “I know that you…well I understand now why you didn’t want to marry me,” he continues, and she has to learn closer to hear him. “But those early years were happier, weren’t they? I remember them that way.”

“They were,” Astra assures him.

“I’m sorry Astra,” he says. “For all of it. For turning into that man you didn’t recognize. When I look back and I see it all I…”

“I knew that kind, brave man who was my friend was in there somewhere,” Astra says, feeling tears in her eyes. “That was why it was so hard. That’s why I was so angry. That’s why I was so relieved to see him again when you appeared on Nassau.”

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” Michel says, reaching for her hand.

“I never quite could,” Astra said, letting the tears come. “Especially not when I saw parts of you in Rene. He was so happy you came, Michel.”

“I know,” Michel says, his voice wavering. Astra watches him slip off his wedding ring, turning her hand palm up and placing it there, folding her fingers over the metal. “Please be happy, Astra. You deserve it. I hope you hear from Imogen, and if not, then I hope there’s someone waiting for you. I know there must be a woman out there. I know it. It is astonishingly easy to fall in love with you.”

“Michel,” Astra says, a sob cutting her off.

“Even if knowing your father meant one day he’d end my life,” Michel says, taking her free hand and interlacing their fingers. “Knowing him gave me you and Rene. I could not regret it.”

Astra leans over, pressing a careful kiss to Michel’s lips. He returns it briefly, his skin chapped and dry.

“I love you,” Astra says. And she does: unconventional as their marriage was, despite the chasm and the pain that lasted so long, he is the father of her child, the man who has been her friend, the person who has, when she considers it, known her longest.

 _I’m glad to be your…husband-friend?_ She remembers him saying weeks ago on the beach, awkward and earnest.

“I love you,” Michel replies. “Please never let Rene forget that I always loved him. Let him know he always did the right thing, that he showed me how to be brave again.”

“I promise,” Astra says. “I promise.”

“Do you think,” Michel says, struggling for a deep breath. “If there is something after this like all the priests say, that Arthur would want to see me? After everything?”

“Yes,” Astra says. “I do. I really do.”

“I had to save Frantz,” Michel says, sounding suddenly desperate for an explanation. “After what Arthur did for me. After everything I put Frantz through. I did not want to leave you and Rene or Nicholas and Frantz. But it was the only way.”

“I know, Michel,” Astra says. “I know. Settle now, we all know, I promise.”

Michel nods, leaning back against the pillows.

“I’m going to go get Javert, all right?” Astra says. “I want you to be able to talk to him before…” she trails off, not wanting to say the words.

“It get worse,” Michel says, finishing for her. “I know.”

He places a kiss on her hand.

“If you check the pockets of my coat,” he continues. “There’s one of those little beaded bracelets Rene made when he was small that I kept in the drawer beside my bed. You should have it.”

Astra reaches inside the bloodstained coat, which lies in a heap on the floor beside the bed, finding the mentioned item.

“Thank you,” she says, feeling an even stronger wave of emotion rise up in her chest and crash down. There hadn’t been time, when she left, to take many sentimental things with her.

“Thank you,” he echoes, kissing her hand once more before she goes out to retrieve Javert.

* * *

Javert’s head jerks up when he hears the door to the cabin open. Astra steps out, looking pale, hair falling loose around her face.

“Go ahead in, Nicholas,” she says, a rare use of his first name.

Javert rises, glancing over at Enjolras, who has one arm draped across his knees, his forehead resting upon it, one hand in Combeferre’s. It’s a mirror image of a much earlier memory of the two of them sitting in the hall outside the room where Arthur lay dying. Courfeyrac sits on the other side of Combeferre, one hand resting on his back.

“How is he?” Javert asks.

Astra shakes her head. “A couple of hours at best, I think. The pain is…” she stops, not elaborating. “Go see him.”

Javert waits until he sees Astra sit down next to Enjolras, who picks his head up, lifting his arm from his knees and putting it around his mother, who rests her head on her son’s shoulder. Then, Javert goes inside.

“Nicholas,” Michel says, making half an attempt at sitting up.

“Don’t,” Javert says, putting up a hand, pulling up the chair from Rene’s desk and sitting down. “Please, just be comfortable.”

Michel nods, and at first, words fail Javert. The ones that do emerge aren’t exactly what he wants.

“To think I had thought I could…” Javert says, struggling. “I could have killed you. I didn’t want to. But I was going to.”

“I think that could be said of the both of us,” Michel says, surveying Javert.

“At first I thought you might not like to see me,” Javert says, his words losing volume as emotion threatens him, and he clears his throat. “And now that my mind has cleared somewhat I would understand why.”

“Nicholas,” Michel repeats, soft. “Of course I want to see you.”

Javert covers one of Michel’s hands with both of his own; now is not the time to hold back, no matter his natural inclinations.

“God, Michel I…” Javert says, his voice closing off. “An apology does not even begin to suffice.”

He pulls back, trying to let go, but Michel keeps a weak hold of one of his hands.

“You did not shoot me, Nicholas,” Michel says, gentler than Javert can bear. “That was my father in law’s doing.”

“No,” Javert says. “But I came with the intention of killing you, I led the charge here,” he says, his eyes running over Michel’s shoulder wound. “I put…” he squeezes his eyes shut, the memory pressing against the lids. “A pistol to Rene’s head when he defeated me fairly.”

“Nicholas, I grant you made your choices, but you were also under duress,” Michel says. “I have never seen you like that, and my father in law does have his ways.”

“I…” Javert tries, shutting his eyes against tears that keep threatening him. “I lo…” he chokes on the words, his voice breaking off and betraying him, an annoyed growl emerging from his mouth instead. He keeps hold of Michel’s hand, looking away.

“Nicholas,” Michel repeats.

“Yes?” Javert asks, still looking out the window.

“Please, I’d like you to look at me,” Michel says, a cough splitting his words, and Javert sees some blood curdle in the corners of his lips.

Javert shakes as he meets Michel’s gaze, anticipation flooding through him.

“I know,” Michel’s hand trembles as it clasps Javert’s. “I love you, too, my lad.”

“Sir,” Javert says, reverting back to the old term, trying to gain control of himself, but his voice cracks anyway. “I have not said it enough but you…you…” he struggles, forcing the words out. “You were more of a father to me than my own was.”

“You were always a part of my family, Nicholas,” Michel says, and Javert sees more blood pooling, urging Michel to sit up and cough some of it up. Javert holds a handkerchief to Michel’s mouth, watching red stain the white in an instant. Javert eases him back down, feeling that pressure behind his eyes again. “You still are.”

“I remember the day I first fought with Rene, when I told you he’d been out too late,” Javert says, barely knowing why he’s telling the story. “And we argued on the beach while sparring. Frantz told me that Rene looked at me as a brother, and I argued, I said no, that was just him, but he was so persistent, and I…” he trails off, not finishing, but Michel knows what he means, reaching up and running the back of his hand down Javert’s cheek.

“I left each member of my family something today,” Michel explains. “Rene has my sword, Frantz the pocket watch Arthur gave me, and Astra my wedding ring. But I’m afraid what I’d like to leave you is less tangible, because the _Navigator_ is sunk to the bottom of the ocean. I need you to do something for me.”

Javert wants to say _anything_ , but the words won’t come out, because he is still uncertain if he plans to survive.

“Finish what I started,” Michel says, and the gleam in his eyes looks so much like Rene’s. “Go to your mother on Nassau and then…” he halts, wincing at a stab of pain. “Listen to Valjean. Listen to Rene and Frantz and Fantine. I cannot continue on this journey I started, Nicholas,” he says, tears gathering on his lashes. “But you can.”

“Michel,” Javert says, feeling something in him split open. “I…”

“I know what I ask of you isn’t easy,” Michel answers, reaching for Javert’s other hand now, holding them both. “I know what you are going through. I have learned so much in the past few months, things I want to teach you, but I don’t have the time remaining to me. So let them do so, please, Nicholas. Atone for the things we have done wrong. And if you can manage it, be happy. Don’t believe anyone when they say you are lesser because of your blood and your birth. I am sorry for my part in not correcting that terrible lie. I should have.”

“Michel,” Javert repeats, tears leaking forth.

“Look out for Rene for me,” Michel says. “I know he is a grown man, surrounded by plenty who care about him, including his mother, surrounded by a family he built. But you are his brother, just like Frantz. I know he hasn’t let go of that. If he ever doubts it, please remind him that even when we were apart, I loved him. I loved him and I loved Frantz so much.”

Javert nods, unable to answer.

“In the end I suppose I had the blessing of three sons, didn’t I?” Michel asks, and now, there’s a smile in his voice.

“I won’t hurt Rene again,” Javert promises, sincere, feeling a few more tears break loose at Michel’s words. “I swear.”

“I know,” Michel says. “I know. I want you to take care of each other. Please do that for me. I know it will take time, I know there are things between you and Rene that are not easily healed but please…” he coughs again, closing his eyes and letting out a gasp of pain.

“I need to go get the others, Michel,” Javert says, rising with haste. “I don’t…I don’t think there’s much time.”

“Nicholas, wait.”

Javert turns around, and with shaking hands, Michel reaches up, placing a kiss on his forehead. Javert stares for a second, then opens the cabin door to usher the others in, his head spinning, and a wave of nausea growing in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Arthur’s pocket-watch ticks from Combeferre’s pocket, the sound overloud in Enjolras’ ears.

“Here, just one more sip of the Laudanum,” Joly says, coaxing Michel without sounding condescending, and Enjolras appreciates his friend all over again. “It will help.”

Michel nods, Astra helping him from her place near his head, and he swallows the bitter liquid down.

“Thank you Joly,” Michel says, voice barely audible. “We’ve come a long way from that day in the Kingston jail, haven’t we?”

“Yes sir,” Joly says, feeling in his voice. “We have.” He turns toward Enjolras, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be just outside if you need anything,” he says. “Don’t hesitate.”

Enjolras nods, feeling Joly’s hand linger before he leaves, the door shutting with a kind of finality behind him. Enjolras tears his eyes away from Michel’s face, looking around him; his mother sits on the edge of the bed, wiping away the sweat constantly beading on Michel’s head with a damp cloth; he sits next to her in a chair, one of Michel’s hands in his own; Javert sits next to him in a second chair, Michel’s other hand reaching across to grasp his. Combeferre, too anxious to sit down, stands near Astra, pouring glasses of water for Michel. Enjolras tugs on Combeferre’s coat, inching over so both of them might share the same chair. Understanding, Combeferre sits down, placing one hand on Michel’s arm, the other lightly grasping Enjolras’ wrist. Michel coughs again, shutting his eyes against a stab of pain.

“Thank you for being here,” Michel says, rapidly losing his ability to speak well. “All of you. I couldn’t have asked for a better…” he coughs again, the racking, painful sound interrupting his words.

“Shhh,” Enjolras says, taking his free hand and running a finger down Michel’s cheek, finding it cold to the touch. “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Enjolras senses Javert tensing beside him, the other man breathing rapidly in and out through his nose.

“Rest, Michel,” Astra says, somehow maintaining control of her voice. .”It’s all right.”

Enjolras feels his father’s grip on his hand tighten, sees Michel’s fingers run lightly across Javert’s wrapped knuckles. He hears a small, sharp intake of breath from Javert, looking over again. Tears stream down Javert’s face, but he doesn’t even notice. He just keeps staring at Michel.

Then Enjolras sees Javert’s free hand reaching out and grasping his own, the skin warm. He feels a set of eyes on him, realizing Javert’s lookng at him now instead of Michel, fear etched into his face. Part of Enjolras wants to pull away. But another part cannot. It is not forgiveness, yet. It is not a renewed offer of friendship yet, because he cannot even look at Javert without feeling a pang in his chest. But here, now, they feel the same pain. His fingers curl around Javert’s hand, returning the grasp. His eyes flit back over to Michel’s face, seeing his father smiling at him before his eyes flutter closed.

“My boy,” Enjolras hears him say.

Then, Enjolras feels Michel’s grip on his hand go lax, one last breath spilling into the quiet room, mixing with the faint sound of the water outside the open window. A thousand memories overtake Enjolras’ mind in flashes of bright, overwhelming color, bleeding into one another. Michel tucking him into bed on the voyage from England to Jamaica, soothing him against the crash of the thunder outside; Michel gifting him the wooden swords when he was barely five years old engaging him in play; Michel swinging him up onto his shoulders, pointing out the stars; Michel coming into his room one night after he’d tangled with his grandfather, holding him as he cried, Enjolras loving him and despising him all at once, a pit of anger in his chest as he asked his father _why_?; Michel’s expression the morning they found the slaves, a mixture of fury and guilt; Michel’s devastation and hope as Enjolras walked up to him on the beach twelve years later; Michel entering his dark bedroom on Nassau, grasping his hand, the words _I’m sorry_ pouring from his lips;  Michel’s bright eyes the night of the bonfire on the beach, looking like a younger man; Michel’s shaking hands the day they’d taken the Spanish slave ship, determination in his expression.

The tumultuous years play over and over in his head, the torrent of emotions spattered against the images, screeching to a halt when he watches his grandfather point the gun at Combeferre, feeling like he might choke on his own breath, when he watches Michel step forward, when he hears the sound of his grandfather’s gun going off.

_Papa._

Then, Michel goes still.

Enjolras can’t let go of his father’s hand, his heart pounding in his chest, the sound of Arthur’s pocket-watch growing somehow louder.

“Rene,” he hears Combeferre say, voice thick with grief.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, his voice cracking and betraying his lie.

He feels Javert let go of his hand, the sound of a chair being pushed back adding to the noise in his head as it scrapes across the wood. Enjolras finally looks up, seeing Javert walking toward the door just as it opens, revealing Valjean.

“He’s gone?” Valjean asks, soft.

“ _Yes_ ,” Javert says, utter agony in his voice, the sound of a man who believes he has no one to break his fall.

“Javert,” Valjean says, trying to block his way, laying one hand on his shoulder.

“Just let me be,” Javert says, swiping at his eyes and pushing Valjean’s hand off. “I will go back to the quarters you insisted I stay in, I will not hurt anyone, I will do as you say, just let me _be_.”

Valjean lets go, and Javert’s footsteps fade away. He steps inside, and before Enjolras quite realizes Valjean’s arms are around him, pulling him close. Finally, he lets go of Michel’s hand, returning the embrace. Over Valjean’s shoulder, he sees Courfeyrac in the doorway.

“My boy,” Valjean whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

Then, the tears come.

* * *

Two hours after Michel dies, Enjolras takes a few minutes of quiet on the deck.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Astra asks, reaching out for his hand.

“I just need the air for a few minutes,” Enjolras promises her. “I’ll be right back. Tell Frantz and Auden for me? They’ll wonder if I’m not back in the cabin.”

She puts both hands on his face, some tears lingering in her eyes as she kisses the bridge of his nose, nodding her assent. Enjolras steps out onto the deck, taking a gulp of the fresh air, eyes scanning the stars; there’s a great many of them tonight, millions of little lights turning the black sky a dark blue.

“Enjolras?” Bossuet’s voice asks from behind him. “Everything’s all right with the ship, if that’s why you’re out here. All the watch shifts covered, even with the injured.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Enjolras says, smiling at his friend, though his face feels oddly heavy. “I just needed a few moments. Thank you for helping get the crew in order, I know you were helping Joly, too.”

“It was mostly Courfeyrac and Feuilly getting them in order, I just helped a bit,” Bossuet says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I won’t ask you if you’re all right,” he continues. “Since I know you’re not. But let me know if you need anything, and it will be done.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Enjolras says, putting one hand over Bossuet’s before his friend lets go. “I will.”

Enjolras walks toward the bow of the ship, leaning his arms on the rail. He pulls the tie from his hair, running his hand through it and letting it fall, the strands landing just past his shoulders. He studies the wood, seeing the chunks missing in places from the battle: more repairs they’ll have to make. He remembers the Navigator’s mast cracking, remembers it sinking down to the ocean floor with the ring of the _Liberte’s_ and the _Misericorde’s_ cannons, gone.

Gone like his father.

He feels the tears threaten him again, breaking through the shock. Then, he hears a voice behind him.

“Rene?” Cosette asks, staying back a few feet. “Would you mind company for a bit? It’s all right if you’d like to be alone.”

“No,” Enjolras says, putting an arm out and ushering her forward. “I wouldn’t mind.”

She steps forward, shifting her long curls over her shoulder, loose from their braid. She covers his hand with hers, the warmth in her touch making some of the tension in his shoulders loosen.

“I’m so sorry Rene,” she says, her thumb running back and forth across the skin of his hand, and he remembers the eager girl two years his junior greeting them with enthusiasm and warmth upon their arrival in Nassau.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, squeezing her hand. “What brings you over to the _Liberte_?”

“I took the longboat over since the waters were calm,” Cosette says. “Papa sent someone over with the message when it happened, and I came back with them. He thought I might be able to help, and Mama agreed.”

“I appreciate the love and support of both of them more than they know,” Enjolras says, looking over at Cosette, who studies him intently.

“We’re family,” Cosette says, firm.

It’s quiet between them and Cosette moves her hand, putting an arm around his waist instead.

“I know you just got him back,” she whispers. “But please remember that you _did_ get him back. He came to Nassau for many, complicated reasons, but one of the most important was because he loved you. And he believed in what you were doing.”

Enjolras nods, not trusting himself to speak just yet.

“It’s all right if you’re sad, Rene,” Cosette says, earnest. “It’s all right if you aren’t yourself right now. We all almost died today, and you closer than most. Then you faced your grandfather, almost watched Frantz die. And then your father did die. Give yourself some time.”

“You think I’m not?” Enjolras asks.

“I only know you,” Cosette says, fond. “I think we all forget to let ourselves rest, sometimes. But it’s what we have each other for.”

“That’s true,” Enjolras says, smiling at her.

“Rene?”

“Yes Cosette?”

“May I hug you?”

“You may,” Enjolras answers, feeling the cold places inside his chest warm. Cosette’s significantly shorter, but she stands up on her tiptoes, sliding her arms around him, embracing him tightly. Enjolras returns it, feeling something of Fantine in Cosette’s touch, gentle, but also ferocious in her love and her loyalty.

Cosette tugs on a strand of his loose hair when they break apart, their attention drawn toward an approaching figure.

Javert. 

“May we speak, Rene?” Javert asks, awkward and abrupt, his normally immaculate dress still ruffled from the battle and his wounds, his long coat removed sometime between Michel’s death and now.

“All right,” Enjolras says.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Cosette says, wariness in her eyes, but her voice is kind when she speaks to Javert.

“Captain Javert,” she says. “I’m sorry about Monsieur Enjolras’ loss. I know he meant a great deal to you.”

“I…” Javert says, disarmed by her generosity. “Thank you. uh…”

“Cosette.”

“Yes, right,” Javert says. “Thank you.”

“Your mother is one of the best people I know,” Cosette adds as she walks away. “I’m sure she will be glad to reunite with you.”

She doesn’t give Javert a chance to answer, walking away and leaving them alone.

“Everyone seems to have an opinion on my mother’s feelings,” Javert says, half a grumble.

“She has missed you since the day she lost you,” Enjolras says, voice hard to his own ears, and Javert’s eyes widen. “And she has been our friend. She talks to us as much as she’ll talk to anyone. Chantal is her closest friend, after all.”

“Frantz’s mother,” Javert says, sounding childlike. “I didn’t know.”

 “What do you want, Javert?” Enjolras asks, feeling tired.

“I…” Javert says, struggling. “To talk to you.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“It should have been me,” Javert says, words fumbled and ineloquent. “Not him.”

“Don’t speak that way,” Enjolras says.

“You’re going to stand here and tell me you don’t wish it was me dead instead of your father?” Javert says, his voice growing harsh in protest of his own emotion. “That you don’t blame me?”

“Those are two very different questions,” Enjolras says. “I did not want either of you dead.”

Javert sighs but doesn’t argue further, coming over and standing next to Enjolras at the rail, mimicking his position. The starlight casts the gray in Javert’s hair silver, the shadows falling so it covers half his face in darkness, the other bathed in the eerie glow of the moon. Javert looks up at the stars, an uncharacteristic wistfulness in his expression.

“This looks like the night you asked me to play with you,” Javert says, and Enjolras hears a strange gentleness in his voice, the sound somehow painful rather than soothing “Doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Enjolras says, his eyes joining Javert’s, an ache settling into the pit of his stomach. “Javert I…I don’t know what to say to you.”

“It was easy for you to talk to me, once,” Javert says, his voice devoid of that trademark growl. Enjolras looks at him, unsettled by the deadened look in his eyes.

“It was,” Enjolras agrees. “But I’m afraid I’m not six, anymore. I’m not eight or ten or twelve. You have searched for me for years, we have very nearly killed one another and now my father is….he’s dead. And I don’t know what to say, tonight.”

“I looked for you because we wanted you to come home,” Javert says, his voice wavering, and there’s a gentleness Enjolras isn’t honestly sure he’s _ever_ heard before, even when he was small.

“I know,” Enjolras says. “But you also wanted to prove me wrong, didn’t you? To punish me for my transgressions?”

Javert looks away, not answering.

“And now?” Enjolras questions. “You stayed. You are headed toward a pirate island on a ship under my command, and I am Valjean’s consort captain.”

“I don’t know,” Javert admits, voice wistful. “I don’t know.” He pauses, considering Enjolras. “Your father missed you, Rene. For twelve years he missed you. I…” he struggles with the words. “I know what it meant for him to make amends with you, even if he…even if it meant he left.” Bitterness tinges his words and he looks away again.

"You had twelve years with him where I was absent," Enjolras says. "And I know that means we are approaching this from different places. You mattered to me, still, both of you, over those years. But I could not choose you over the things you put me through, and more importantly, the things that were right, the things you were participating in and which I had to fight back against. Then I did get him back. And now he’s..." Enjolras runs his fingers through his hair again, overcome with the mismatched emotions he feels, all running into the wall of grief.

They had won today, and they had lost, all at once.

“Valjean was talking to me about that man, Myriel,” Javert says, surprising Enjolras. “And how much his life changed because he met him. I think…I think your father was like that, for me.”

Enjolras nods but doesn’t respond, desperation edging into Javert’s eyes.

“I remember that night so well,” Javert says, an out of place lightness in his tone. “I thought perhaps your father would think me silly for engaging in games, but then I found myself the sword instructor of a six-year-old as a result.” He pauses, and Enjolras feels Javert’s eyes on him. “Why _did_ you come up to me that night?”

“You looked lonely,” Enjolras says, still looking out at the sea, comforting in its familiarity. “And I was lonely, too.”

“But you’re not lonely now?” Javert asks, and Enjolras can’t sift through the fog of his mind well enough to decipher the layers of questions beneath the one Javert asks.

“No,” Enjolras says. “I’m not lonely.”

Silence rests between them, yet somewhere in the back of his mind, the sound of Arthur’s pocket-watch still ticks on and on.

"Have you given up on me?" Javert asks.

"No," Enjolras says. "But this is not simple, Javert."

"Rene..."

“I do not want to play tonight, Javert," Enjolras says. “No matter how similar the sky looks.”

For the first time, Javert heeds him. He nods, going back in the direction of the quarters they put him in. Enjolras isn’t overly concerned with Javert trying to harm someone, not weaponless and in the wake of Michel’s death, but he tells the men on watch to keep an eye out nevertheless. He heads back into the cabin, finding Combeferre and Courfeyrac waiting for him.

He cannot look at his own bed where Michel breathed his last, his body moved below until morning, when they would bury him at sea.

“Where did my mother go?” Enjolras asks.

“She’s went to talk with Valjean for a while,” Courfeyrac answers. “She’ll be back.”

Enjolras sits on Combeferre's bed, feeling the other two come in on either side of him.

“Talk to anyone on deck?” Combeferre asks, pulling the pocket-watch out of his coat, finger running over the cover.

“Bossuet,” Enjolras answers. “Cosette.” He pauses. “Javert.”

“Javert should be in his quarters,” Courfeyrac says, voice low. “He’s lucky he’s not in the brig.”

“Auden,” Combeferre tries.

“He put a pistol to Rene’s head,” Courfeyrac says, and Enjolras is startled by the tears in his eyes. “After Rene defeated him fairly.”

“I know,” Combeferre says, reaching over Enjolras and putting a calming hand on Courfeyrac’s arm. “And I’m nowhere ready to forgive him for it or let him forget,” he continues, anger resonating through his voice. “But let’s hear what he wanted. What _did_ he want, Rene?”

“I…” Enjolras answers, taking Courfeyrac’s hand, feeling his friend’s frustrated breathing even out. “I’m not sure, entirely. I think I’m the closest connection he has to my father and…he looked dead in the eyes. I don’t know what to even…think.”

Combeferre takes his free hand, squeezing it.

"Today, Javert said he was the monster," Enjolras says, musing aloud. "When he dropped the pistol. But I wonder if I..." he trails off.

"Rene," Courfeyrac says, gently pushing a stand of hair behind Enjolras' ear. "You are not a monster."

"I threatened Admiral Adams with no quarter," Enjolras says, looking over at him. "That breaks every rule Valjean ever taught us."

"Sometimes rules have to be broken," Combeferre says, and the words settle Enjolras' heart, because Combeferre wouldn’t say them if he didn’t believe the truth of them, especially not when it came to the morals of their resistance. "If they had continued fighting...their desperation would have caused a terrible carnage. And the point is you _did_ give him the chance. That matters, Rene."

"But I did it because of my father," Enjolras protests. "I let my own emotions play into it."

"How dare you be a human being?" Courfeyrac says, a teasing in his voice. “Your grandfather tried to murder Frantz in front of you, and killed your father in the process. They wanted to kill all of us, Rene. And god help me but, but your grandfather also tried to crush Javert for his own means, and I think that’s cruel beyond belief, despite what he’s done. You are not the one who made the monstrous choices today.”

Enjolras smiles at them both, allowing his head to be coaxed into Courfeyrac’s lap, his feet resting on Combeferre’s legs. He closes his eyes to the feeling of Courfeyrac’s fingers massaging his scalp and the sound of Combeferre’s voice reading, having pulled a book from the shelf. He hears his mother’s voice a few minutes later, and everything melts together, sleep claiming him as its own.

* * *

They bury Michel at sunrise.

Rene’s favorite, Javert thinks through the thick fog in his brain. Rene’s saying something about Michel, something about thanking his crew for taking him under their wing after years of only knowing him as a pirate hunter, talking about the final days of Michel’s life, of his choices to join them, but Javert only hears every other word, unable to focus. Valjean asked him if he wanted to say anything, but Javert declined. He didn’t trust himself to make it through the speech, let alone in front of a crowd of pirates.

“When I was small he used to show me the stars,” Rene says, and Javert does hear that, drawn to the words. “And tell me they showed sailors the way and I…” he pauses, swallowing, and Javert sees Astra take his hand. “I am glad my father found his way, in the end. It meant a great deal, to me.”

He falls silent, turning when Grantaire offers him a piece of their now tattered flag. Javert watches Enjolras smile, pressing Grantaire’s shoulder and accepting the piece, tucking it into the folds of the sail cloth covering Michel’s body. No matter how close he stands, Javert doesn’t quite hear the rest of the proceedings, startled when Rene touches his arm, asking him if there’s anything he’d like to do or say. Javert looks down at the old East India ring still on his hand long after he joined the navy, a gift from Michel for his birthday years ago, finding he cannot bear to part with it. He reaches into his pocket instead, fishing for the short note Michel left him in the desk drawer with the wooden sword; the toy was lost to the sea with the _Navigator_ , but Javert put the note in his pocket just before he left on some sort of instinct, and it was still there. He places it in the fold next to the piece of the flag.

Michel’s body slips into the sea as the sun bursts over the horizon, orange light streaming across the blue, the cannons of both the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_ booming around them. Enjolras stands by the rail until the crowd disperses, but he’s drawn back toward his cabin by Prouvaire, who wraps an arm around his waist, whispering something Javert cannot hear into his ear. Enjolras turns back, looking at him, blinking against tears. He holds Javert’s gaze for a few seconds, and something about the look in his eyes hits Javert hard in the chest.

In the midst of his own grief, in the midst of his confused thoughts about Rene and Valjean and Michel himself, he hadn’t fully accepted the guilt he feels about his part in taking Rene’s father from him.

 _You didn’t shoot me, Nicholas_ , he hears Michel say.

A rage builds up in his chest when he thinks of Baron Travers, burning up his throat like acid. The image of the gun to Frantz’s back makes him remember his own pistol to Rene’s head, and he shuts his eyes, hating himself. He wants to hate the baron for pointing a gun at a weaponless Frantz, but he’d done the same to Rene.

 _But you dropped it_ , that voice tells him. _Baron Travers didn’t._

Enjolras looks away, disappearing into his cabin. Javert feels eyes on him, seeing Valjean watching him from across the deck, still on the Liberte.Javert looks away, eyes sticking on the horizon as the sun settles in its place, resting at the edge of the water, bright and unobscured by clouds.

It’s beautiful.

But he realizes now, as he looks out, that he doesn’t very much care to see another sunrise.

He hadn’t killed Michel, but Michel was dead, and he’d planned to end his life the moment he set out on this voyage. The manner of events weren’t what he planned, but the will to live hadn’t returned.

Rene thought he didn’t hate him, but he would, eventually. He didn’t need Javert, plain and simple.

He’d dropped his sword. He’d succumbed to piracy. Or at the least, to pirates.

Oh, but they were _right._

And that meant that he’d been woefully, horribly wrong.

 _Were they right_? that voice asks him.

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

He’d neglected his _duty_.

But they were _right_.

His world shattered to pieces yesterday on the deck of the _Misericorde_. But there’d been cracks long, long before. Wretched cracks drawn by the capacity for love he wished he didn’t have and yet couldn’t curse away.

His whole life was a lie.

A _lie_.

He doesn’t want to live in that world.

He doesn’t want to live in the world where he’d contributed to Michel’s death.

In a world where Baron Travers could do as much damage as he liked, and walk away.

A world where he’d _obeyed_ Baron Travers.

A world where Rene hated him.

 _He’s a pirate_ , the nastier voice whispers. _A villain. A thief. Just like Valjean._

All these years, Valjean was right. He was always right. The thief the convict the pirate was _right_.

His mother was right, and he’d shunned her.

Rene was right.

In the end, Michel was right.

_Finish what I started._

“I can’t,” Javert whispers to himself. “I can’t, Michel.”

If he hadn’t come, Michel would be alive. Michel wouldn’t need him to finish what he started.

 _Everything you built,_ the voice says. _Gone. Demolished._

 _It doesn’t have to be_ , the gentler voice says _. Rene said he hadn’t given up you._

“He should,” Javert says.

_You’re not the monster. I am._

“The monster,” he says, louder this time. “I’m the monster.”

He hadn’t succeeded in killing Michel or Rene or Valjean because he couldn’t bear it, but his devotion to his life was not stronger now, it was even weaker.

He hadn’t gone with Michel when he asked. He’d done nothing but hurt and hurt and hurt them.

In the battle between his loyalty and his duty, he’d chosen his duty until the final moments, and now Michel was dead.

He should be dead, too.

There was nowhere to go, no way to win. No course to follow other than one where he needn’t worry about a course anymore.

 _You could go with them to Nassau_ , the voice reminds him. _To your mother. With Rene. To carry on Michel’s legacy._

Javert internally balks.

_You could belong with them._

_No_ , he answers back. _They’re pirates_.

 _Aren’t you_? The voice asks.

“No,” Javert says aloud. “I am _not_.”

“Javert?” Valjean calls out from his place near the bow. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Javert says. “I’m fine.”

Valjean continues looking at him so Javert retreats, striding across the deck and below, back to his tiny quarters, hearing some of the men grumbling as he passes, uncomfortable with his presence.

But how can he accomplish ending his life before they reach Nassau without notice until after the deed is done?

When it’s dark, he decides. People are less likely to catch him in time, especially with the cloud cover already present in the day.

So he waits, the hours passing one after the other as he lays in the small bed, his mind blank.

Everything’s shrouded in darkness when Javert finds a loaded pistol leftover from the battle laying in a shadowy corner of the ship near the stern, answering his question of the manner of his death for him.

One shot, and he could fall into the ocean just like Michel, lost to the depths and the night and the stars above.

He’d never really cared for daylight, perhaps because it showed in sharper relief the reasons why he never fit, not anywhere. Not with his parents, who loved a life he hated, even if he shared their resemblance. Not with his fellow East India or naval officers in a life he could at least feel pride in, because there were always second looks from passerby, always, because he looked just different enough. Never enough to cause trouble, but always enough to leave lingering questions.

He was born a monster, and became yet more of one by obeying those who deemed him such in the first place. A monster twice over, committing a treason against his beliefs because of those he loved, and a treason against those he loved because of his beliefs.

Perhaps he’d only ever been an attack dog for men with power, thinking it meant he had power himself.

Standing here, he realizes he never did.

He’d possessed the power of choice, muddled as even that was, and he’d made all the wrong ones.

 _Look at me if you’re going to kill me,_ he hears Rene shout.

An old memory surfaces, the sound of Fantine’s desperate pleas for him to just let her keep a necklace containing a lock of her daughter’s hair.

Of Valjean, letting him go that day on the ship, that night on Nassau, and again today.

He’d been abhorrent. Cruel.

Yet the idea of joining _pirates_ still seems abhorrent, somehow.

So here he stands, with the ocean floor and the gun in his hand serving as both a punishment and an answer.

The velvet night shudders around him, cold seeping down into his bones, ice crystalizing around the edges; he looks out, seeing stars scattered across the sky in small patches, clouds blocking the view of any constellations, Orion long since vanished at this hour so close to springtime. Some of the clouds look swollen with rain, though not enough to make any sailor wince.

His heart trembles trembles trembles, cracking the stone around the outside and revealing the vulnerable center he’d never quite covered up.

He wishes again that Valjean had killed him. There’d been so many chances. He wishes even Rene or Michel had killed him because then Michel wouldn’t be dead and Javert wouldn’t be alive to see his own life crumbling to dust, he wouldn’t be alive to live with the burden of just how wrong he’d been, he wouldn’t be alive to have this battle over who was just and who was not.

They should have killed him.

If they had he wouldn’t be living in a hell where he owed his life to pirates. A hell where Michel was dead and Valjean was right. A hell where his mother told him he was her shame. A hell where he’d made the little boy he once loved scream in pain.

He’d just be dead.

“I can’t do this Michel,” he whispers, the breeze hot on his face even at nearly midnight. “You gave the wrong person your legacy. I’m sorry. It’s too heavy.”

The men on the watch don’t see him-or at least he thinks they don’t- when he steps up onto the rail, his hand remarkably steady as he places the pistol to his temple, the other holding tight to the rope.

Noise grows in his head, a mixture of different sounds; his mother’s soft lullaby floating into his ears as rain pattered against the ship, thunder crashing and keeping him awake; Rene’s squeal of childish laughter as Javert advanced on him with the wooden sword, Frantz’s whoop of encouragement as he looked up from his book, watching them; Michel’s dry chuckle at one of Arthur’s jokes one night as the three of them drank brandy; the water lapping against the hull; the clang of swords crashing into one another.

The faint echo of a gunshot resounds through, overcoming all the rest.

It starts to rain, droplets dampening his hair and running down his face.

He shuts his eyes.

“Javert!” a voice calls out, not shouting but urgent, not one, but two sets of footsteps approaching him.

Valjean.

“Javert, put the gun down,” he says. “Please put it down.”

Javert opens his eyes.

Valjean stands before him, one hand raised toward Javert. Enjolras stands beside him, hair askew and wild from sleep, eyes wide.

“Javert,” Enjolras echoes. “Don’t.” Javert watches Enjolras’ face crumple, his voice shaking. “Please, I…”

Enjolras’ words are interrupted when Javert feels his feet slip out from under him on the wet rail, his hand keeping hold of the rope as he falls, his shoulder hitting the wood with a painful bang, but he can’t get a foothold on the side of the slick ship, the water looking ominous below as he hangs above.

He could let go.

Valjean’s hand juts out, reaching for his, Enjolras’ shout resounding through the air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! Well. Sort of. As this chapter ended up being longer than intended so that things originally planned had to go into the next one, there will be about four chapters left after this. 
> 
> Thanks for staying on this journey with me, everyone!! It is so appreciated :D


	33. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At rock bottom, Javert finds himself leaning on the last people he ever expected, his life spilled out in front of him as he remains uncertain and frightened, yet still stumbling down a new path. The crew returns to Nassau, reuniting Javert and Tiena. Enjolras, Combeferre, and Astra grieve Michel's death, bolstered by their friends. Javert searches for ways to regain Enjolras' trust, and in the meantime, strikes up a tenuous friendship with Valjean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No historical notes that I can think of for this chapter! I do mention the Romani word for brother (there are many dialects, but it was the one I could find) so if anyone happens to notice it's incorrect, I will gladly change it! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 17**

“Javert,” Valjean repeats. “Take my hand.”

Javert feels his fingers slipping on the cordage, the fibers cutting into the skin. He could fall into the ocean and sink down down down to oblivion, the water giving him a peace far less fragile than anything he’d ever attained so far. It seemed more fitting, somehow, than the gun, which fell from his hand when he slipped. He grew up on the water, lived his life on the water, he might as well die on the water.

But Valjean was here, putting out his hand.

_Rene_ was here.

Could he make Rene watch him die?

_I did not want either of you dead,_ Rene said earlier.

Perhaps Enjolras only said that to make him feel better, Javert thinks, already clearly worried about his sanity, but then, Enjolras never said anything he didn’t mean, not since Javert had known him.

Javert’s shoulder throbs from banging against the side of the ship, the cutlass wound broken open again, blood running hot and sticky down his arm.

A wave hits the side of the ship, wetting his bottom half, the spray hitting his hair and his face, saltwater getting in his eyes.

“Javert,” Valjean repeats. “Don’t do this.”

Enjolras steps forward, his face visible over the rail.

“Take Valjean’s hand,” Enjolras directs, his words are firm. “Then I’ll take your other one. We’ll pull you back up on deck.”

Javert’s always been good at following orders, and the order in Enjolras’ voice somehow pushes him forward more than Valjean’s gentle plea. Orders made sense. He could obey orders, even if they came from a pirate.

He takes Valjean’s extended hand then feels Enjolras pry his slipping fingers from the cordage, taking them in his own. They give a tug so that Javert gets higher foothold, pulling him over the rail and onto the deck. Javert rests on his hands and knees, coughing up sea water that makes his nose tingle. Valjean crouches on the deck next to him but Enjolras stays standing, looking truly afraid for the first time Javert can remember, as if fearing his presence might make things worse.

Javert doesn’t feel better. The pain of Michel’s death, the pain of his life that’s ripped to shreds along with his grasp on what he thought was moral integrity, still reverberates through his entire body.

And _yet_ ….

And yet as he looks at their faces, the urge to fling himself over the edge dissipates, ever so much, still there but no longer as powerful.

“Javert,” Valjean says, and Javert shuts his eyes against the gentle tone. “Are you all right?”

“Why are you doing this?” Javert asks, his voice shattered. “Why are you saving me? I’ve never done anything but hurt you. Nothing.”

“Because I would not see you take your own life,” Valjean says, putting a careful hand on Javert’s shoulder.

“Why?” Javert pleads.

“Because I know people who love you,” Valjean says, and Javert’s surprised at hearing an aching sadness in Valjean’s voice. “And because I care about you myself.”

“ _Why_?” Javert repeats. Nausea roils his stomach, creeping upward until he dry heaves, but nothing emerges. Valjean’s thumb runs back and forth over Javert’s shoulder in reassurance, and the gesture reminds Javert of Michel. Suddenly, Javert feels naked without his coat, dressed only in his breeches, shirtsleeves, and stockings, his boots like iron on his feet, damp from the water. He honestly can’t recall when he removed his cravat or his waistcoat.

“I don’t know,” Valjean says, honest. “Perhaps because I’ve seen this struggle inside you all along. Because perhaps I knew you were meant to be with us.”

“You’re pirates,” Javert says, the words pouring out of his mouth. “I don’t belong with society, but I don’t know how to _be_ a pirate.”

“We can teach you,” Valjean says. “When you’re ready. But ending your life isn’t the answer.”

“There’s nowhere for me to go,” Javert insists, looking up at Valjean, water dripping from the ends of his loose hair.

“There is,” Valjean says. “Nassau.”

Javert’s eyes dart up toward Enjolras and then back to Valjean, and he lowers his voice.

“Rene will never forgive me,” Javert whispers, his heart pounding against his chest and leaving bruises. “How could he?”

“I think he might,” Valjean says, lowering his own voice. “If you give him the time. Your dying won’t do that, Javert.” Valjean straightens, standing up, and Javert finds he misses Valjean’s hand when it moves from his shoulder, as if the only thing anchoring him to this earth is the presence of a man he spent years despising.

“Rene would you come here?” Valjean asks, putting his hand out. Enjolras takes it, eyes flickering from Valjean’s face to Javert’s.

Valjean runs an affectionate thumb across Enjolras' cheek and Javert marvels at the easiness of the gesture. The little love he'd allowed himself had never been that way, always an exception to a rigid rule. Enjolras smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and Javert hates himself for even temporarily stealing the boy’s brightness. Then, Enjolras kneels down on the deck beside him as Javert sits back on his heels.

“Why don’t you hate me?” Javert asks, sounding like a child. “ _Why_ , Rene?”

“I’ve never hated you, Javert,” Enjolras says, voice more solid now. “I’m angry at you just like you’ve been angry at me. But I would never want…not this, Javert. Not this.”

Javert doesn’t answer. His arm throbs, the wound irritated and inflamed.

"If I cannot appeal to your own will to live, then at least consider that my father wouldn't want this,” Enjolras says, voice warmer than Javert expects, concern piercing through. “What did he say to you, today? If I might ask."

"He asked me..." Javert chokes, ashamed of his vividness of his own emotion. "He asked me to continue what he tried to do, at the end. And he...he asked me to look out for you." He looks up, and Rene's face isn't readable. "I know you don't need that. I know that I am not the one who should..."

He cannot finish.

"Please," Enjolras says, voice cracking, barely audible. “This is about far more than me, but I do not want to suffer another loss today.”

A _loss_.

Rene thinks his death would be a _loss_.

Suddenly Enjolras' arms are around him, hesitant at first and then holding tight, fingers pressing desperately into Javert’s shirt as thinking he might will Javert's desire for life of his own accord. Javert hears sobbing, only realizing after a moment that the sound emerges from his own mouth.

His shoulders shake, and he cannot make it stop.

It's raining harder now.

Then, words, come up his throat, sharp and cutting and making him bleed.

"I am _sorry_ , Rene," Javert says. “God, I’m _so_ sorry.”

The words come from somewhere deep within, somewhere he cannot deny.

"I know," Enjolras says, soft, the six-year-old boy again, covered with the marks of an adult.

He does not say "It's all right." He does not say "I forgive you." But there is a promise in the words. An opening.

Enjolras pulls back, hands lingering on Javert's arms, searching his face. Javert cannot tell if the boy is crying because of the rain, but he feels the sobs in his own chest threaten him again as he looks at Enjolras, _really_ looks at him, through the eyes of the man who is no longer with them. He feels rent in half, torn between pride and love and disdain.

“You are worth more than what the world has taught you,” Enjolras says, and behind him, Javert sees Combeferre emerging on deck, tailed by Courfeyrac. “And not just to me or my father or your mother, but for your own sake. You are not a monster, Javert. They just wanted you to believe you were.”

“You always said I was like your brother,” Javert says, forcing the words out. “But I never let myself tell you the same. I never….”

“ _Phral_ is the Romani word for brother is it not?” Enjolras asks, and Javert’s surprised by the familiar word. “Your mother told me.”

Javert nods, too surprised to answer.

“When you dropped that gun today,” Enjolras says, the rain running down his face, and it pains Javert how much his eyes look like Michel’s. “When you gave in and grabbed onto my father’s coat, I thought…I thought there was a chance of that old feeling coming to life again.”

“It can’t be the same Rene,” Javert whispers.

“No, it can’t,” Enjolras says, fingers instinctively touching at his neck where Javert’s sword pressed up against it few months ago. “But please, Javert. Your death isn’t the answer. It shuts off every other chance that lays ahead.”

“If I could take your father’s place I would,” Javert says, a sob bursting out again as his voice goes higher. “I would, Rene, I…” he starts coughing, but then the cough turns into something more, and he’s sick on the deck.

“Let me die, Rene,” Javert begs once he recovers himself. “Just…”

“No,” Enjolras says, firm again. “I will not.”

There’s footsteps and a hand on his forehead. Javert’s eyes flit upward, seeing Combeferre.

“He has a fever,” Combeferre says, directing his words to Enjolras and Valjean. “I’m not Joly, but I think his arm might be infected, and it doesn’t help that the suture’s come open.”

“Javert,” Enjolras says. “Can you walk?”

When Javert doesn’t answer he feels Enjolras and Valjean move in on either side of him, both lifting him up off the deck and half-walking him toward the quarters where he lay earlier, a growing group of pirates appearing on the deck.

Then, the world grows dark.

_The inside of his brain is a cloud of deep, deep blue, almost black like the ocean at its most ominous on those starless nights that leave Javert with a sense of dread._

_How could he find his way without them?_

_He doesn’t know where he is. On a ship, he thinks._

_A sliver of light shines down on the deck, revealing two words lit by flame._

_The Navigator._

_He backs away, the flames crackling overloud in his ears._

_He turns, seeing a head of auburn-brown hair and a familiar face behind him, long dead._

_Arthur._

_“You killed him,” Arthur says with a disdain only reserved for Baron Travers and now spilling onto him. “You killed Michel.”_

_“I didn’t,” Javert says, but the protests sound weak to his own ears. “I didn’t, Arthur.”_

_“You didn’t put your hands to him,” Arthur spits. “But it’s still your fault. He finally found his way, he finally found his courage, he finally found his happiness, and it’s all cut short because of you.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Javert says. “I’m sorry._

_“You traded slaves,” Arthur persists._

_“I know.”_

_“You hurt my son. You hurt Rene. And if not for them, Chantal would still be in chains.”_

_“I know, Arthur.”_

_“And then when Michel saw the error of his ways, when he saw the pain he caused, when he set out to do what he could to correct his actions, your answer was to kill him.”_

_“I know,” Javert repeats. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I couldn’t kill him. Or Rene. I couldn’t.”_

_“He asked you to finish what he started,” Arthur says, marginally less harsh. “You need to do it. That is how you atone.”_

_“I can’t,” Javert says, feeling short of breath. “I can’t. I don’t know how.”_

_Arthur pauses, some of the anger melting off his face, and when his hand touches Javert’s forearm, a string of stars grows visible in the sky above them._

_“You can,” Arthur says, a tiny smile cracking onto his face, sad, but filled with a faith Javert doesn’t understand. “You do know how, because you’re already sailing toward it.”_

_“I can’t,” Javert repeats, feeling something pulling him back into consciousness._

“I can’t,” Javert hears himself say, a shiver running down his spine. He jolts up, smacking his bandaged knuckles against the wall, making them bleed again.

“I can’t!” he repeats, a strangled yell bursting from his mouth.

“Shh, calm down,” someone says, the dim candlelight making the person’s golden hair glow. “You were having a fever dream.”

“Michel?” Javert asks, half delirious, forgetting for a moment, that Michel’s dead.

“I’m afraid not.”

Rene, Javert realizes, blinking.

“You passed out,” Enjolras tells him. “Breathe, it’s all right.”

Enjolras’ deep voice sounds like Michel’s, landing firm on the order but still with a certain kindness.

_It’s not all right_ , Javert almost says.

“Here,” Enjolras says. “Let me re-wrap your knuckles. Can you sit up?”

Javert nods, turning and resting his back against the wall, heavy with sleep. Enjolras wordlessly takes his hand, removing the old bandage. Part of him wants to draw his hand back and slap Rene’s away. He’s frightful at letting people take care of him; he’d barely let Michel wrap his wounds after the first battle and given how many people he’s let do so lately-including Valjean-he’s not certain how much he can take. But he relaxes, finding Enjolras’ touch warm and familiar, more certain than when he was a boy.

“Why are you here?” Javert asks, watching Enjolras wipe the new blood clean with a damp cloth.

“I’m looking after you,” Enjolras says, simple.

“Why?”

“My father would want me to,” Enjolras answers.

“But you don’t want to.”

“I wouldn’t be here if that were true,” Enjolras replies, blue eyes flashing upward, annoyed and empathetic all at once.

“Valjean was here?” Javert asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says. “He’s seeing to some things now.”

Enjolras finishes wrapping the bandage around his knuckles, around the wound that Michel left in light of Javert’s threat. Javert seizes the tips of Enjolras’ fingers with his hot, sweaty hand, keeping hold. Enjolras starts, surprised.

“Go back to sleep, Javert,” he says, gentle.

Javert obeys.

_This time, everything is bright bright bright, the sun shining high overhead, the newly varnished foremast glistening in the light.  His finger runs over an etching in the wood._

_The Captain._

_“Nicholas,” a voice says._

_Michel._

_Javert spins around, opening his mouth to speak. Arthur stands near the bow, watching them, looking more like Javert remembers him, an easy smile illuminating his features._

_“It’s not your time to join us,” Michel says._

_“I can’t do it, Michel,” Javert says. Storm clouds off in the distance cut into the sunshine, but the ship’s sailing away from them._

_“You can,” Michel says, pressing his hand. “I believe in you.”_

_“Why?” Javert asks, the word familiar on his tongue._

_“Because I always have,” Michel says._

_Arthur walks over toward them, looking at Javert knowingly as if this dream connects to the other. He puts an arm around Michel’s shoulders, an old habit from years past._

_“Finish what we…” they say simultaneously._

The ship lurches, starling Javert.

“…started,” Javert says, eyes flying open, waking again from the fragment of a dream to the feeling of someone pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, and Enjolras is still there, sitting quietly in a chair jammed into the small quarters.

“We’ll be at Nassau in a few hours,” Enjolras tells him.

Javert stays awake long enough to look down at his arm, seeing a new suture.

“Frantz’s work,” Enjolras explains at Javert’s wordless question. “Under Joly’s supervision.”

“You’re still here,” Javert says, but he cannot think of anything else to add.

Enjolras nods.

 “What about your duties?”

“Courfeyrac’s taking care of them,” Enjolras says. “Drink this,” he says, holding out a glass with a small dose of rum.

“It’s foul,” Javert complains.

An amused smile flickers onto Enjolras’ face, but he clears his throat, serious.

“The Laudanum is worse,” Enjolras points out. “And I know your arm hurts.”

Javert doesn’t possess the energy for further argument, but when he takes the glass it very nearly slips out of his sweaty hand.

“Your fever’s breaking,” Enjolras says, one hand curling over Javert’s, and Javert jolts at the touch. “But your grip’s a bit slippery I’m afraid. Tilt your head back.”

Javert obeys again, feeling like a child, but the rum goes in easier than expected.

“You don’t have to stay,” Javert says.

“I think I do,” Enjolras answers. “Go back to sleep.”

“You’re a good captain to your men,” Javert says, his eyelids already growing heavy. “Pirate or no. I remember you and Frantz talking about…talking about being the captain and the navigator. Like your fathers.”

He falls back asleep before he hears Enjolras’ answer.

When Javert wakes up a third time, he’s not on the ship anymore.

In fact, he’s not certain _where_ he is at all.

“Where am I?” he asks, grogginess overcoming him, his words slow and slurred.

“My house,” a familiar voice says, and when Javert turns his head, his whole body aching, he sees his mother.

Javert stares at her as she comes into view, the long curtain of black hair she usually leaves down pulled into a braid. She dabs away at the sweat on his forehead, expression stern, but there’s monumental relief behind her eyes, which mirror his own.

“On Nassau,” he whispers, a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” she answers.

“I don’t remember getting here,” he says, sitting up against the pillows resting against the headframe of the second bed. He looks around, seeing what looks like a one-room house, but the space is large enough, cozy and well-kept.

“Valjean and the crew brought you here,” Tiena says. “Carried you on a cot from the ship.”

“You were out cold,” Valjean says, stepping in through the doorframe, and Javert whips around, exacerbating his headache.

“What…where did you come from?” Javert asks.

“I’ve been here since we brought you,” Valjean says as if this makes sense. “I was just outside speaking with Fantine.”

“I tried to kill you,” Javert says. “Two days ago.”

“I am aware,” Valjean says.

“Don’t be rude, Nicholas,” Tiena says, and Javert falls silent, a boy again at his mother’s reprimand.

“You’ll need to rest for several days,” Valjean says. “Joly said a low fever may last for a bit, given you’ve been wounded multiple times in a span of months and your body is rather angry about it. You’ve got a small infection in the wound on your arm, but it should dissipate.”

“I…thank you,” Javert says, begrudging. He thinks again of the ship and the rail and the gun, and finds he’s still not certain he wants to live.

But he doesn’t exactly want to die, either.

“I remember Rene sitting with me,” Javert says, the images like a dream in his mind. “Did I imagine that?”

“No,” Valjean says, trading a glance with Tiena.

“Well may I see him?” Javert asks.

“He’s not here, Javert,” Valjean says. “He’s at home resting. He was wounded too, you recall, and his injured arm is causing him pain.”

Guilt sits heavy in the pit of Javert’s stomach. “Well. I’m sorry to hear it. May I see him later?”

“I think he may require some time to himself,” Valjean says, putting it delicately. “I’m sure he will come when he’s ready.”

“He doesn’t want to see me,” Javert surmises.

“Javert…” Valjean tries.

“He’ll nurse me on the ship but then won’t speak to me now,” Javert snipes, more upset by this than he wishes, and the memory of Michel’s death comes tumbling back into his mind. “Of course.”

“Javert,” Valjean repeats, more stern. “You must recall what the two of you have been through.”

“You said he would forgive me,” Javert says, feeling his breaths growing shallow, a strange panic seeping into his veins.

“I think he will,” Valjean says. “But that isn’t something given freely. It has to be of his own accord, and the first step you should take to earn it is giving him the time he needs.”

Javert huffs but doesn’t argue, knowing Valjean’s right.

“I know I couldn’t live with myself if I killed him,” Javert says, soft. “Or Michel.” He looks up at Valjean. “Or even you.”

“Is that what led you to the rail?” Valjean asks, and Javert cannot believe he’s spilling his inner secrets to _Valjean_ of all people, his mother listening quietly next to them.

“I realized I couldn’t kill any of you,” Javert admits. “But the wanting to die didn’t really change. Especially not after…after Michel. After…I don’t really want to talk about this.”

“I think you should,” Tiena says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Javert lets out a shaky breath when she puts a hand on his back, her voice carrying the tone of the lullabies she sang to him as a child.

“I…” Javert tries. “I thought if I killed Rene and Michel and you,” he says looking over at Valjean, shame creeping into his cheeks. “And then I killed myself, I would have done my duty and simultaneously, punished myself for committing such a crime. I wanted to follow the law, but I knew I couldn’t live with the outcome, either.”

“Nicholas,” Tiena says, upset in her voice.

“But then you couldn’t do it,” Valjean finishes for him. “And Michel died anyway.”

“Yes,” Javert says. “And I…I couldn’t believe what I’d done. To all of you. But I also still…I still…”

“Despised us?” Valjean asks.

“I didn’t understand you,” Javert corrects. “I didn’t understand how it seemed like you could be right when you broke every law, every custom. But you weren’t wrong, either and I…I…”

“What, Nicholas?” Tiena asks, and the love in her voice after all these years, after all this time, sends tears springing into his eyes.

“There was nowhere for me to be,” Javert says, breathing in sharply, trying to control himself. “Nowhere to go that was right.”

“This is right,” Tiena says turning his face toward her with a single finger. “This door was always open to you.”

_You’re pirates_ Javert wants to say, but he cannot. Not anymore.

“I’m going to leave the two of you alone for a while,” Valjean says, patting the edge of the bed. “But I’ll be back. Tiena, let me know if you need anything, one of us will be here as soon as we can.”

Tiena nods, offering a genuine smile to Valjean when he clasps her arm. When he closes the door, only the two of them remain.

“Lay down,” Tiena directs.

“I’m fine,” Javert protests. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

“You’re not fine, not physically and not mentally,” Tiena says, looking him straight in the eyes. “Besides that, you’re shaking.”

Javert succumbs, resting back against the pillows.

“I don’t want to be a trouble,” Javert mutters.

“I’ve been wishing you would be a trouble for years because it would mean you were _here_ ,” Tiena shoots back, and he’s forgotten after all these years how similar they are in temperament, but applied to very different ideals.

“Last time we spoke you said I was your shame,” Javert argues with more anger than he really feels, building a defense around himself. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me at all.”

Tiena stands up abruptly from her seat on edge of the bed, and Javert realizes there’s tears in her eyes.

“You know better,” she says, voice rising. “After all this time, after that night you turned me away. You know better, Nicholas. I’ve watched my friends reunited with their children, and yet I never got that, yet here you are telling me you didn’t think I’d want to see you. How dare you?”

Javert reaches out, grasping her hand out of an instinct he didn’t think he possessed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t…I am not good at this.”

“You could have died in battle,” Tiena says, lowering his voice, and he’s shocked at the tears running down her face, because she never cried much when he was growing up. “And then you almost took your own life. Nicholas you are my child. Of course I’d want to see you.”

“I’m sorry,” Javert repeats, words failing him.

“Please tell me you won’t try to take your life again,” she says, pleading with him. “When they brought you to me, alive, it was more than I could have hoped for. I was ready to hear news of your death, Nicholas. I was convinced. That’s why I wasn’t there, during the battle. I couldn’t bear you rejecting me again. I couldn’t bear seeing your death with my own eyes.”

Somewhere deep in Javert’s chest, the dam breaks.

Javert sobs harder here than he did on the deck with Enjolras and Valjean, sobs harder than he did the day he was separated from his mother in the first place, realizing he couldn’t find her, and no one would help him. He fights for breath, gasping in a few shallow ones as he sits up again. His mother’s eyes go around him, holding him tight like a child.

“Why do you love me?” he asks, his voice cracking and going high at the edges. “Why?”

“Because I do,” Tiena says, words clear. Her hand goes to the back of his neck, fiddling with his hair in comfort. “I always have. Anger does not preclude love, darling.”

Javert sucks in a breath at the endearment.

“But I have been so cruel to you,” Javert says. “I thought I was right, but I wasn’t. I don’t know how to live with either of those things.”

“You live with those things by waking up every day and trying again,” Tiena says, pulling back, resting one hand on his shoulder and another on his cheek. “You keep going. You change.”

“I don’t know how,” Javert says.

“I’ll help you,” Tiena promises. “Let this be your home.”

“It’s a _pirate_ island,” Javert says, unable to help himself.

“Just start with this house then,” Tiena says, moving a hand back and forth between them. “Start with you and me. Then move forward.”

Javert nods, tears coming afresh when he remembers Michel’s hand in his, finger running across the wounds on his knuckles.

“Michel is dead,” Javert says, hating himself. “My actions cut his new life short.”

“You didn’t shoot him, Nicholas.”

_You didn’t shoot me, Nicholas._

“But I led Baron Travers there,” Javert says. “I….”

“I have no doubt that Michel loved you like a son with his dying breath,” Tiena says, gently interrupting him.

“He asked me to finish what he started,” Javert says. “He asked me to carry on that work. To look after Rene and I want to. But I don’t know how.”

“We will figure it out together,” Tiena says.

“I miss him,” Javert says, voice wavering again. “I don’t know how to be without his friendship, without his guidance.”

At this Tiena embraces him again, and despite the embarrassment burning his face, he leans into the gesture.

“What do you do here?” he asks, pulling back, letting his mother examine the bruise on his jaw from Enjolras’ punch, still sore to the touch.

“I run a shop in the market selling clothing and jewelry,” Tiena says. “First alone, now with Chantal. We also took over an unused house, turned it into a boarding home for the slaves the pirates free. Some are temporary, some are permanent.”

“I’d heard you worked with Chantal,” Javert says, his heart pounding with exhaustion now, and he lets Tiena lay him back down, but he feels no small ounce of shame that he can’t seem to take care of himself, at three and forty years old. “I only ever really saw her from a distance in Port Royal, met her very briefly once.”

“She’s an excellent woman,” Tiena says, stroking his hairline, encouraging him to sleep. “And a very good friend. Very much like her son.”

“I’m sorry I turned you away,” Javert mutters, sleep taking its toll. “Michel, he told me to reconsider. But I was so….”

“Shhh,” Tiena says. “These are things to discuss later. Go to sleep, Nicholas.”

Words sit thick in his mouth, but he cannot find the energy to push them forth, sleep crashing over him like a wave.

* * *

Enjolras wakes before sunrise.

He lays in bed for a few minutes, an ache spreading through his entire body, but he can’t make himself fall back asleep. The new cuts on his stomach and his hand sting; neither very serious but painful still because they’re fresh. His injured arm feels sore, no doubt from being grabbed first by Admiral Adams, then by Javert before it was fully healed.

Javert is here.

Here on Nassau.

The reminder hits him again in the secret, calming hideaway of the dying night, and he finds it difficult to comprehend even if he knows the truth of the matter.

Michel is dead, and _that_ reminder hits him with a wave of nausea, grief heavy in the pit of his stomach. His experiences taught him that grief was unpredictable as time went on, ebbing and flowing and striking at unexpected times, but now it stays fully in the forefront, thick and unyielding.

 It mixes with the relief and the satisfaction and the joy that they’d won the day. And not only that, but he’d likely run his grandfather off for good, which was no small feat. He didn’t fool himself into believing that the war was over even if they’d gained the upper hand for now; civilization was always going to be at war with piracy, and he knew that as the years crept by, the British set their sights on reclaiming Nassau as a punishment for stifling their trade in the Caribbean. It wasn’t a matter of if, but when. Piracy certainly didn’t end or begin with Nassau, but he did think that one day they might have to choose between continuing on with their work and fighting for the island itself.

He shakes his head, sliding out from under the covers and feeling around for his boots. He’d fallen asleep in his trousers and shirt, so he slides the boots on once he finds them in the dark, a smile slipping onto his face when he glances at Combeferre and Courfeyrac in their beds, sneaking out quietly so he might see the sunrise.

But when he finds his usual favorite spot on the beach, he’s not alone.

“Rene,” Astra says, glad to see him. “You’re up early.”

“So are you,” Enjolras says, sitting down next to her, watching her loose blonde hair fly about in the early morning breeze. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not really,” she says, sliding an arm around his waist. “You?”

“Fitfully,” he admits. “I’m a bit sore.”

“A bit?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’d say that’s an understatement.”

“Well,” he says, smiling at her. “I’m used to it. Not the bullet wound to the arm so much, but I’ve seen my share of cutlass wounds.”

As he speaks the sun starts peeking out over the horizon, the sky turning a hazy blue as orange-red streaks draw their way lazily across the water.

“So nonchalant about bodily harm,” she says.

“Pirate,” he says, shrugging, a half teasing lilt in his voice. He pauses, glancing over at his mother before looking back out again at the water. Michel loved the sunrise too, something they always shared in common. “I miss him. It sounds strange because I’ve barely accepted he’s gone in the first place. But I do.”

“I know,” Astra answers, her free hand running down his cheek with melancholy affection. “I do, too.”

“I just…” Enjolras struggles with his words, resenting it. “After everything, after all those years, he was here, we were all here. He was going on voyages with us, and then…” something hardens in him as he thinks of his grandfather with the pistol to Combeferre’s back, of Michel wrestling him over the weapon. “I don’t suppose I will ever forgive grandfather for what he did. I hadn’t forgiven him for anything in the first place but now I do not think I have it in me.”

“I don’t think you have to forgive him,” Astra says, surprising him. “He hasn’t earned anything of the sort, and I certainly don’t plan on doing so.”

“No lecture about the virtue of forgiveness?” Enjolras asks.

“I think there is virtue in it,” Astra says. “But less so when the person has offered no apology or remorse. I don’t think not forgiving someone has to destroy you, or make you bitter.”

“I threatened his life,” Enjolras says, his voice falling to a whisper.

Astra stays silent for a moment, releasing Enjolras’ waist and taking both of his hands instead, interlacing their fingers, peering at him with an intensity he recognizes in himself.

“He’d fatally shot your father, my darling,” Astra says. “He’d nearly murdered your dearest friend in front of you, he would have seen you dead that very day, in that moment, if he could, to erase the stain on his name. This is not to even mention the past. I don’t think you were wrong to threaten him to make him leave.”

“I always want to believe in the best of everyone,” Enjolras says, speaking as the thoughts enter his mind. “I always want to believe people can change. But he never did.”

Sensing something in his voice, Astra lets go, putting both hands carefully on the side of his face.

“That is not your fault, Rene,” she says, firm. “My father was obsessed with power, obsessed with control, and he was cruel to achieve his ends. It’s not your fault he couldn’t see the miracle that you are.”

Enjolras nods, feeling tears brimming in his eyes.

“And your father,” she says, voice shaking. “It doesn’t take away the pain of losing him, but he died reunited with me, with Frantz, with you, with Javert. He was trying to be that better man both you and I and Arthur always knew he could be. He had plenty of regrets, but these past three months certainly weren’t among them. The world, the place you and your friends offered him once he was willing, that made all the difference. It’s not your fault he died, Rene. He loved you, darling. He loved you.”

Enjolras nods again, tears slipping loose.

“I wish to heaven it didn’t happen,” Astra says. “But he died saving Frantz’s life. He died for something _important_ , something that matters so much.” She wipes away some of the tears with her thumb, giving him a watery smile.

Astra convinces him to lay his head in her lap, massaging her fingers through his scalp.

“You know I don’t let just anyone do this,” Enjolras says, quirking one eyebrow as he looks back at her.

“I consider myself privileged,” Astra says, chuckling. “I also consider that I went through twelve hours of labor to deliver you in the world.”

“Mother,” Enjolras complains.

“Don’t you mother me,” Astra says, fond. She pauses and Enjolras sees something new hanging from a chain around her neck.

“His wedding ring,” Enjolras says, musing aloud. “He gave it to you.”

“He did,” Astra says, fingering the piece of jewelry. “Something of his to keep with me. He told me he hoped I heard from Imogen. It meant a lot to me.”

“He wanted you to be happy,” Enjolras says, his stomach hurting as the images of his father’s last hours rush through his head.

“We had so much pain and anger between us,” Astra says, wistful. “But he was my friend once, and it was nice to have that again, but with more honesty, with things more out in the open. But I’m glad we had the time we did.”

“So am I,” Enjolras replies.

Quiet sits between them as the sun rises higher, a bright ball of orange red casting color over blue-green water that grows clear closer to shore.

“You were good to sit with Javert,” Astra says. “I’m hoping Tiena will have an effect on him. Angry as I am, I could never wish him that fate. Though part of me is not surprised, after everything that already happened, and with your father’s death on top of it all.”

“I felt like I needed to sit with him,” Enjolras says, feeling his eyes close. “I know I could have trusted any of the crew to make sure he didn’t make another attempt, but I…” he trails off, unsure what he means, entirely.

“I know, darling,” Astra says.

“I care about him despite myself,” Enjolras continues. “I cannot…I cannot give up yet, on that man who played with me that night so long ago. Though I think I need time before I can speak to him at any length again.”

“I support you in whatever you choose,” Astra says, running a finger down his cheek. “But if he is rude to you he will answer to me for it. And to Chantal. And Fantine.”

Enjolras laughs, sleep in his eyes as they fall shut again.

“I know, Maman,” he says. “I know.”

With that, he falls asleep on the sand. When he wakes up, he hears a wall of whispers and laughter surrounding him. He cracks one eye open, hearing his mother’s soft chuckle from behind.

“Well then,” Bahorel says, a teasing glint in his eyes, but it doesn’t mask the real concern in his face. “Look at that. The Avenging Angel is a mother’s boy.”

“So are you,” Enjolras shoots back, opening both eyes and sitting up, looking around.

His heart nearly bursts when he sees everyone save Tiena and Javert standing around him, food, drink, and cutlery in hand.

“Fair enough,” Bahorel says, offering his hand and pulling Enjolras up from the sand, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to reaffirm that when she brings the rest of the food.”

“There’s more?” Enjolras questions. “It looks like we already have enough.”

“Blasphemy,” Grantaire says, grinning at him. “There can never be too much food. Right, Joly?”

“Hmm yes, quite right,” Joly says, winking in Enjolras’ direction. “Besides, Gavroche will eat at least half.”

“I will not!” Gavroche protests.

“Little boy still growing,” Bossuet teases, earning a shove for his trouble.

“I’m grown enough to beat you in a fight,” Gavroche says.

“Oh certainly,” Bossuet says, laughing. “Even I’d bet against myself on that. Much better at making weapons, really.”

“Don’t sell yourself short Bossuet,” Feuilly says, earnest.

“Never, my friend,” Bossuet says, slipping an arm through Feuilly’s.

Behind them, Eponine clears her throat. “As fascinating as all this is, I believe we came here to have breakfast?”

“Hear hear,” Courfeyrac says, pushing his way through everyone so he might sit next to Enjolras, pulling Combeferre along with him. Enjolras sits again, Cosette pressing a plate into his hands with a smile and a kiss to his cheek. He hasn’t eaten much over the past few days, and at the scent of food his stomach finally seems interested, so he takes advantag. He looks around him, the sight of everyone around him keeping some of the sadness at bay for a little while. Fantine, his mother, and Chantal laugh together over a joke he cannot hear; Cosette’s busy pelting Bahorel and Gavroche with pieces of bread as Valjean looks on, whispering encouragement in her ear until he gets a piece thrown at him by Gavroche for his trouble; Prouvaire’s pointing out something on the horizon to Feuilly, a hand resting on his back; Marius listens to Grantaire tell a story with exuberant hand motions, amusement in his eyes; Joly, Bossuet, and Eponine greet Bahorel’s mother and sisters as they arrive, helping with the food. Courfeyrac sits back down next to Enjolras, plate in hand.

“This was your idea, I imagine?” Enjolras asks, glancing over at him, but Courfeyrac looks pointedly at his plate, moving things around with his fork.

“It was a collective thought,” Courfeyrac replies as Combeferre joins them, sitting down on the other side of Enjolras.

“Is he trying to tell you it wasn’t his idea?” Combeferre asks.

“It was a collective effort,” Courfeyrac insists.

“Yes,” Combeferre says, pointing at him with his fork. “But it was your idea.”

“Well,” Enjolras says, cutting through their affectionate bickering. “Thank you. Really.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, that warm sparkle in his green eyes. “I know how being in the company of all our friends lifts your spirits. A balm, in this case.”

Enjolras reaches over, pressing a light kiss to Courfeyrac’s temple, evoking a rare, pleased blush.

“Auden and I both know what it’s like to lose a father,” Combeferre says, his words a gentle, private whisper for just the three of them, and Enjolras presses his hand, Combeferre returning the gesture with a squeeze. “And you were what got me through losing mine. We wanted to return that favor.”

“Albeit a bit loudly,” Courfeyrac says as Bahorel releases a roar of laughter behind them at something Fantine’s said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac kisses his cheek in response, warmth glittering in his eyes.

“I think my father would have approved of the boisterousness of the proceedings,” Combeferre says, quirking one eyebrow.

“An excellent pirate in absentia,” Courfeyrac says, raising his glass.

“Quite agreed,” Enjolras adds.

“In any case,” Combeferre replies, wry. “I do hope they don’t remain as ghosts as some on Saint-Domingue suggest in their voudou practice, because my father would no doubt convince yours to play tricks on us that Bahorel could only dream of, just to keep us on our toes.”

For the first time in days, Enjolras laughs until his sides ache.

* * *

**A week and a half later.**

“Why are we doing this?” Javert asks, stepping tentatively outside the front door of his mother’s house.

“Because your mother needed to tend to something at the shop with Chantal,” Valjean says. “And I offered to keep you company.”

“I know _that_ ,” Javert snarks. “I mean why are we going _outside_?”

“Because you have been inside for a week and more with illness,” Valjean says. “And Joly indicated that if possible I should get you out into the sunlight for a short while.”

“And open me up to attacks from pirates on this island who despise me?”

“No one will attack you while you’re with me,” Valjean says, calm, irritating Javert.

“Pirates aren’t exactly known for their decorum,” Javert complains, closing the door behind him anyway as Valjean beckons him forward.

“I have been here for a long time and cultivated relationships,” Valjean says, but there’s something off his in voice. “We’d made our home here even before it was entirely given over to pirates. Therefore as I said, no one will attack you while you’re with me.”

Javert pauses, stopping in his tracks.

“You had to threaten them,” Javert surmises.

“I did not threaten,” Valjean argues. “Most of the crews respect me and respect Fantine and Rene enough to leave you be despite their anger.”

“But not all of them?”

“There was a bit of a struggle with a couple of the captains, who thought it only fair they should be able to exact revenge,” Valjean says, looking uneasy. “Word had spread that you were with us, and I let them know that you were not here to harm anyone, and it would not do to make an example of you as the people we fight have made of our comrades.”

Javert thinks of the pirates hanging in the Port Royal and Kingston harbors, wincing.

“Fine,” he says. “But can we at least walk somewhere more private?”

“I know a spot,” Valjean says, nodding.

Javert follows Valjean silently until he sees a bit of beach more closely surrounded by palm trees.

Only, they aren’t quite alone.

Javert sees the familiar head of blond hair in front of him, a bandaged hand scribbling across paper until he pauses, thoughtful.

Rene.

His red coat sits to the side of him, his toes pushed into the sand, and a pile of what looks like half-written letters discarded on the ground.

“What on earth is he doing?” Javert asks, thinking out loud.

“Trying to write a letter to his uncle,” Valjean says, melancholy slipping into his tone, careful with his words and looking nervously at Javert.

“I’m not fragile, dammit,” Javert says, taking the tone personally.

“It would be all right if you were,” Valjean says. “Given the circumstances.”

Javert huffs, continuing his line of questioning.

“He’s writing to Michel’s brother, the vicomte?” Javert asks.

“Yes,” Valjean says. “He hoped he could let them know more personally before the papers did, and thought his uncle might be the best one to write to.”

“Remy loved Michel a great deal from what I recall of meeting him and listening to Michel over the years. Was always trying to get him to come back to France,” Javert answers. “Though I don’t know how well he’ll take to learning Michel died a pirate.”

“Died a pirate reunited with his son, and Arthur’s,” Valjean says, gently correcting him. “Rene is asking his uncle to tell the comte and his wife as well as his sister so they might control the story however they see fit and not be blindsided, but it’s proving difficult. He worries his grandfather will return to England and speak to them first and twist the story somehow to lessen his guilt.”

“Michel’s family didn’t care for Baron Travers as time went on,” Javert says. “But I understand the concern. How does post leave Nassau?”

“Privateers,” Valjean says. “Plenty of them secretly do business here. Though post is rare, given the obvious.”

Feeling their eyes on him, Enjolras turns around, resting the paper on his knees, eyes widening in surprise at finding company. He gets up from the sand, walking over toward them, but Javert can’t make out what the boy’s feeling from his expression.

“Going for a walk?” he asks, as he approaches, eyes flitting over to Javert before staying on Valjean.

“Joly thought Javert should get out of the house,” Valjean says. “So I offered to keep him company.”

“Good,” Enjolras says, sounding vague. “Good.”

“And how is the letter going?” Valjean asks.

“Longer than expected,” Enjolras says. “I suppose I should worry about revealing myself, but then it’s not really a secret anymore, is it? It’s not as if the authorities don’t know who I am and where exactly we are.”

“Not quite a secret,” Valjean says, offering Enjolras a smile, and Javert sees some of the tension slide out of his face.

“Do you want to walk with us?” Javert asks, abrupt.

“Thank you,” Enjolras replies, looking back over at Javert, unease in his eyes, but Javert thinks he sees his lips flicker upward briefly. “I’m going to return to the house and keep working on this. But enjoy the weather.”

“Rene…” Javert protests, but Enjolras interrupts.

“I am going home,” Enjolras repeats, firm, a flash of frustration in his eyes, but then they grow concerned. “If you should very seriously need me, then I will be there for you.”

With that he bids them farewell, walking in the opposite direction toward Valjean’s house, which Javert hasn’t seen.

“Enjoy the _weather_?” Javert says as soon as he’s out of earshot incredulous.

“Javert…” Valjean tries.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me?” Javert says, voice rising. “Fine. I don’t want to talk to him either if he’s only willing to be around me when he think I might off myself.”

Valjean looks at him, crossing both arms over his chest.

“Make him talk to me,” Javert says, disliking the whine in his voice but he cannot cut it out.

“I will do nothing of the sort,” Valjean says, annoyed. “He will come to you when he’s ready.”

Javert doesn’t answer at first, turning away from Valjean when he feels tears brimming in his eyes again, cursing his weakness.

“What if he’s never ready?” Javert asks in a small voice, vulnerable again in front of the last person he expected.

“I’m certain he will be,” Valjean says. “But Javert…”

“Save me the list of crimes I’ve committed against him,” Javert says, feeling the sheer emotional force knocking the wind out of him. “I know them. I’ve been repeating them to myself over and over again since I arrived at this wretched island.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Valjean says, reaching out and touching Javert’s shoulder, not drawing back when Javert flinches. “I was going to say that you cannot look at him simply as an extension of his father. He is mourning Michel’s loss, too. He is making sense of your presence here just as you are. He needs time.”

“Why don’t you need time?” Javert asks, sitting down on the sand, following Valjean’s lead. “I hunted you, too. I tried to kill you, too. It was your family and your crew I tried to send to the gallows, too. I let my captain on the Orion degrade and abuse you.”

“I haven’t known you since I was six-years-old,” Valjean says, his words cutting deep into Javert’s heart. “You weren’t my hero, knocked off a pedestal as time passed. You weren’t a staple of my childhood who ended up putting a sword to my throat and a pistol to my head. It’s different.”

“I was never his hero,” Javert argues, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, staring out at the sea.

“From the moment you crossed toy swords with him, you were that little boy’s hero,” Valjean says, persistent. “No matter if you wanted to be or not.”

Javert sighs, not replying.

“But he is not a boy anymore,” Valjean continues. “He is a man, and things are vastly more complicated for reasons I’m certain I don’t need to explain. You inevitably share Michel in common, and that will never change. But you need to approach him as someone you care about on his own merits, and not just as his father’s son, which would have been true even if Michel survived. You learned a great deal from Michel, and one more thing should be to give Rene time. Michel was willing to do that.”

“I do care about him on his own merits,” Javert says, soft.

“Then give him the time he needs,” Valjean urges. “And I promise you, he will come. I know him well enough to be certain of that outcome.”

“You love him a great deal,” Javert says, a statement and not a question.

“Yes,” Valjean says. “I love all of those young men, my nephew Jahni, and Cosette as if they were my own children. Rene is inextricably a part of that. And I trust him, without fail, as my consort captain as much as I trust Fantine as my quartermaster.”

“He knew you would come for him in Kingston,” Javert says, finally looking at Valjean again. “That you would come for him and Frantz and Auden.”

“And I always will,” Valjean says, firm, fiddling with the end of one of his dreadlocks.

“You are too generous to be believed,” Javert says. “Taking in Rene, taking in Michel. Taking in me, after everything.”

“I know what it’s like to feel lost, Javert,” Valjean answers. “I know what it’s like to feel angry. But going it alone wouldn’t have helped me see my way out of anything. Fantine and Myriel taught me that, and I would pass the lesson onto you.”

“Michel is gone,” Javert says, his voice cracking as he speaks.

“He is,” Valjean says, putting a tentative hand on his back. “But the fact remains that you are not alone. He would remind you of that. I’m certain he did, in those last hours.”

Javert doesn’t answer, but the words sink into his head, and as he looks out at the sea again, he offers no arguments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there should be about three more chapters left on this fic adventure! :D I hope you are enjoying.


	34. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the dust settles, life on Nassau continues, and old relationships find new life as tentative news ones are forged. Piracy remains the victor for now, even as civilization lingers on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can confidently say that for the first time in a while, by the end of this chapter, you are gonna love me :D
> 
> Some suggested listening:
> 
> Streets of Nassau / Black Sails OST  
> Wooden Toy Sword / Heather Alexander  
> Dante's Prayer / Loreena McKennit  
> Kiss the Girl / The Little Mermaid (You're wondering about this one, aren't you?)

**Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 18**

**Three weeks after Javert’s arrival in Nassau.**

 “This is a gambling game,” Javert complains, gazing down at the deck of cards and then back up at Valjean. “Auden taught Rene and Frantz how to play, and for that matter how to gamble.”

“What’s a small bet between friends?” Valjean asks.

“We’re friends now?” Javert asks, crossing his arms over his chest, knowing he sounds petulant.

“Do you want to play or not Javert?” Valjean asks, shuffling the cards, still patient.

Javert continues looking at the cards, anxious.

“If you’re concerned Michel wouldn’t have approved,” Valjean says, and Javert feels annoyed at the concern in Valjean’s voice, tiring of being treated like a fragile piece of china, but given the events of the past weeks, he can’t say it’s not justified. “He played a few games of this with some of the crew while he was here.”

“He was furious when he found out Rene and Frantz were gambling,” Javert argues.

“Well,” Valjean says, wry. “Things have changed a bit since then.”

“Fine,” Javert snaps. “I’ll play. But I only have the pound notes in my coat pocket, which isn’t very much, mind. I didn’t exactly empty my accounts when I left Kingston.”

“Your enthusiasm astounds me,” Valjean says. “I’ll teach you how to play and then I’ll go inside and retrieve your mother and Chantal to play with us. We can just pretend about the betting, for now.”

Javert grumbles quietly but doesn’t argue, adjusting his rickety chair in the grass, hearing the ocean nearby.

“All right,” he says. “How do you play then?”

“One person in the game is designated the banker,” Valjean says. “And the other players are called punters. Auden said he prefers having at least three people in this role.”

“He taught you how to play?” Javert asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Not too long after he arrived,” Valjean says, fondness in his eyes. “Though when we were on land, of course. Our articles largely forbid games that involve gambling.”

“Discipline among pirates, is there?”

“We aren’t anarchists,” Valjean says, gazing back up at Javert. “We just have a different governing system we use to largely good effect, I’d argue.”

“While being in open revolt against the government,” Javert mutters, pulling at the new breeches his mother gave him, still stiff.

“Well,” Valjean says. “One could just as easily say the government is in open revolt against the most vulnerable of its citizens, as well as those it doesn’t consider citizens at all.”

Javert falls silent at this, memories of shipping slaves on the _Navigator_ emerging in his mind, hearing the coughing and the retching, the sick scent wafting up through the boards on the deck. He remembers the slave auction they stumbled across with Arthur, remembers the flash of fear in his eyes, worried about Chantal. He remembers Michel fighting with Baron Travers about the packing method, guilt etched into every crevice of his face.

“Yes,” Javert replies, quieter now. “I suppose that’s true.”

“So,” Valjean says, clearing his throat. “Auden tells me that normally there’s a mechanical device called a shoe that prevents cheating by the banker, but I’m afraid we don’t have that so you’ll just have to trust me.”

“You may be a thief,” Javert says, feeling his lips quirk upward and tries mightily to suppress it, though he’s not entirely successful. “But I don’t suspect you would ever cheat at cards. Too honorable.”

“Warming up to me, Javert?” Valjean asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

“No,” Javert says, but it only makes Valjean’s smile grow wider. “Stop it.”

“Stop smiling?”

“Yes,” Javert says. “It’s aggravating.”

“My but you are dramatic,” Valjean says, chuckling.

“Show me the damn game, Valjean,” Javert grunts. “Or I’m going to leave.”

Valjean shuffles the cards, but before he starts explaining a group approaches, distracting them.

“I need you for a bit, Valjean,” Fantine says, walking toward them with Prouvaire, Feuilly, and Combeferre in tow behind her, talking together. She looks suspiciously at Javert but doesn’t comment. “A few new men on the island approached Rene and I about joining our crews to fill in for the ones we lost in battle. They’re in the tavern now, I left Rene and Bahorel with them. I thought we’d take Feuilly and Prouvaire as well, since we need to fill spots on the deck and gun crews.”

“All right,” Valjean says, laying down the cards. “Pardon me for just a bit, Javert.”

"Valjean," Javert says, realizing he’s about to be left alone with Combeferre. “Wait just a minute…”

"I'll be back soon," Valjean says, patting him on the shoulder.

Fantine studies Javert, eyes roving over the cards.

“He’s teaching you to play Faro, I see?” she asks, the first words she’s spoken to him directly other than a brief inquiry into his health when she came to visit his mother.

“Yes,” he answers, feeling awkward, inevitable thoughts of their past encounters tumbling around in his head. “I…uh. I hope Cosette is doing well?” he asks for lack of anything else to say, remembering the girl’s kind eyes the night he spoke to Enjolras on the deck.

“Quite fine,” Fantine says, sounding stiff, but there’s a kindness in her eyes that mirrors her daughter’s. “Thank you.”

“Come join us when you’re done here,” he hears Feuilly tell Combeferre. “We’ll save a glass of wine for you.”

“I will,” Combeferre says, smiling at his friends as Prouvaire presses his hand, Feuilly casting a worried glance at Javert as they leave with Valjean and Fantine.

Javert huffs, turning back to Combeferre.

"Here to kill me?" he asks, eyeing Combeferre's pistol.

"In broad daylight?" Combeferre asks, quirking one eyebrow. "Surely you know I'm more intelligent than that. Besides, my mother’s just inside the house, and she and your mother are dear friends now. Now if _Auden_ were here I…”

"Frantz,” Javert interrupts. “Don’t trifle with me.”

“Javert,” Combeferre says, gentler. “I would not try to kill you, and you know that. I was very concerned that night, when I saw you on the deck. None of us wanted that for you, and I do hope you’re better.”

“I’m not planning on throwing myself off any ships, if that’s what you’re asking,” Javert mutters, knowing full well he’s being difficult.

“Well I’m glad to hear you say so,” Combeferre says, more genuine than Javert can bear.

Silence sits between them, thick and uncomfortable until Combeferre speaks again.

"What exactly are your intentions with Rene?" Combeferre asks.

"He’s not a woman I’m trying to court," Javert snaps. “Intentions. Good lord.”

Combeferre stares at him, peering over the edge of his spectacles, unimpressed.

"It seems to me the both of you were more willing to talk to Michel than you are to me," Javert says.

"Because when he arrived he chose not to push us," Combeferre answers. "He listened and was willing to learn. And despite his many other transgressions, he did not try to slit Rene's throat in front of me. Or put a gun to his head, for that matter."

Javert wilts, real grief in his eyes. "Perhaps you won’t believe me, but I do regret both of those things.”

“I believe you,” Combeferre says, and Javert looks up, surprised. “I know you weren’t quite right in the mind, that there was pressure mounting from all sides, that you were going through a great deal. But I would advise you to give Rene time to deal with everything that’s happened.”

“I haven’t bothered him,” Javert says, looking back down, twisting his fingers.

“No,” Combeferre says. “But I don’t think you’ve quite accepted why you shouldn’t.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes slightly even though there’s still sympathy within them. “I’m telling you right now I will not tolerate you hurting Rene. Not again.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the gentler one of the two of you?” Javert asks. “The diplomat to his soldier or something?”

“Perhaps,” Combeferre says, a controlled anger in his voice. “But when it comes to Rene, I would be a soldier unto the breach.”

Javert doesn’t answer at first, memories of Rene and Frantz’s childhood tumbling into his mind, remembering how easily they bonded in the face of society telling them no, sharing in their fathers’ love for each other while also creating something new. Part of him thought their friendship could never last, yet here they were together still, after everything they faced.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Javert says, sounding far more vulnerable than he likes. “I want to mend things, where I can. And I…,” he struggles with the words. “I accept it will not be as simple as I’d wish.”

“Do you?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes,” Javert says. “I’m not sure I need you lecturing me about the matter.”

“I think you do,” Combeferre says, voice sharp. “I’m not demeaning what you’ve been through, lately. I know how hard losing Michel is for you. I know that you are struggling with this entirely new world, this new viewpoint, that you almost lost your life to that struggle, but Rene almost lost his life at your hands, all right? I don’t think you’re taking it seriously enough.”

“Frantz…” Javert tries.

“I’m not finished,” Combeferre says, words slicing into Javert. “When I saw you that day from across the deck, Rene’s hand the only thing standing between your sword and his throat, I very nearly fainted. When I saw you put that pistol to his head a few months later, I thought I was hallucinating. I couldn’t believe that I was seeing you try again. I told you years ago that Rene looked at you like his brother, so imagine what it felt like for him to see that person wielding a weapon and going for a kill strike? And for me, to see _my_ brother, the person I can scarcely imagine living without, almost bleed out on the deck.” Combeferre’s voice breaks here, and Javert sees his eyes shining, but the tears don’t fall.

“I know what you mean to one another,” Javert says, feeling shame creep through him.

“Then understand that I know him better than anyone,” Combeferre says, marginally less harsh. “He wants to mend his relationship with you as well,” he continues, and Javert feels the heaviness in his chest lighten an inch. “But he needs time. Rene’s always known he could die in battle. That any of us could die in battle. It’s not an easy truth, but one we know remains, nevertheless. But he never expected _you_ to try and do the job. Not even after everything that happened when we were children.”

“I know,” Javert says, softer now. “If you think it’s best, I’ll wait for him to come to me.”

“I do,” Combeferre says, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.

They sit in silence for a minute or two until Javert speaks.

“I think I owe you an apology as well,” Javert says, the awkwardness mounting. “For a great deal, but for that morning, with the slaves, in particular.”

“Thank you,” Combeferre answers, meeting his eyes. “I appreciate that.” He pauses, and Javert sees him debating something before pushing forward.  “We’ve saved some Romani slaves, you know. Even one woman set to be sent to Baron Travers as a house slave.”

There’s an undeniable layer of anger in Combeferre’s voice, less at Javert than the subject of slavery, reaching out and making clear that if things had gone differently, either of them could have been slaves themselves.

“My mother mentioned that to me, I think,” Javert says. “Michel helped you take a slaver when he was here, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Combeferre says, a pinch of grief in his voice now.

 “Well,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “I think both he and your father are proud of you.”

A half-smile slides onto Combeferre’s face. “Javert,” he says, with a hint of teasing. “You’re practically gushing.”

“Stop it,” Javert warns. “I am not.” His eyes fall to the book resting on the table, the title written in French. “What is that you’re reading?”

“A book on Vodou in the Caribbean,” Combeferre says, glancing back down at the cover. “Mostly focusing on Saint-Domingue. I found it in a captain’s cabin on a ship we took a year ago, but haven’t had the chance to read it, though I suspect he took it from a slave.”

“You stole a book?” Javert asks.

“What their gold isn’t off limits but books are?” Combeferre asks, raising both eyebrows.

“I don’t know,” Javert says. “I just thought you had respect for books and their owners.”

“Well,” Combeferre says. “That captain didn’t have respect for the book’s original owner, did he?”

“No,” Javert admits, feeling the smirk growing contagious. “I suppose not.”

“I know it must be hard for you, without Michel,” Combeferre says, and there’s a flicker of Arthur in his eyes.

“I’m not the only one who lost him,” Javert grumbles, feeling that familiar ball of nauseating grief crawl up his throat.

Whatever Combeferre might say next gets cut off by the sound of the door opening, Chantal and Tiena stepping out.

“Frantz,” Chantal says, warm but surprised, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Just standing in for Valjean for a few minutes,” Combeferre says. “Fantine and Rene needed him to interview some possible new recruits.”

“Ah,” Chantal says, taking one of the spare chairs. “He was teaching you Faro?” she asks, looking at Javert.”

“Yes,” Javert says, drawing out the word, unsure.

“Well we can finish teaching you,” she says, looking at Tiena as she sits down next to Javert. “Can’t we Tiena?”

“Certainly,” Tiena says, patting Javert’s shoulder.

“You play Faro?” Javert asks.

“I’ve lived on Nassau and in proximity to Auden Courfeyrac for some time now,” Tiena says, and once again, Javert sees that spark of life in his mother’s eyes, that sense of safety he never saw growing up. “So yes, I know Faro. Hand me the cards, Nicholas.”

Javert complies, looking up as his mother shuffles the deck, seeing Valjean approaching again, pausing for a moment and observing them, that infuriating smile on his face.

 _Michel_ , Javert thinks, trying to glower back at Valjean but finding himself unable _. If this is picking up where your footsteps left off, we’re off to a strange start._

Still, Javert realizes with a start, he doesn’t entirely hate the situation.

He still woke up in the mornings with a stabbing feeling in his chest, but finds he’s glad now, that he didn’t sink into the ocean’s depths after all.

* * *

**A Month after Javert’s Arrival in Nassau. Late April 1716.**

It’s late when Javert returns.

He mostly stays cooped up in his mother’s house, but sometimes after nightfall he walks along the mostly deserted patch of beach Valjean showed him a few days after his arrival, far from judgmental stares of pirates, some of whom no doubt wished him harm, but stayed away at Valjean and Enjolras’ request.

 _Captain Javert, the pirate hunter_ , he’d heard a drunken pirate whisper in awe one night. _What the hell’s he doing here?_

 _I suppose the royal navy gets rid of their own, sometimes,_ a second answered as they scuttled away from him. _But didn’t you hear?_ _He knew Captain Enjolras when he was a boy._

It took Javert a moment to realize when they said Captain Enjolras they meant Rene and not Michel.

 _First Michel Enjolras, and now Javert here on Nassau_ , the first pirate said. _Never would have expected it. They’re damn lucky we’re hospitable, aren’t they?_

 _It’s his mother what runs that clothing shop, too_ , the second said, their voices faded away in the distance so that Javert hadn’t heard the rest of their conversation.

Left in solitude on this particular night, he stayed longer than usual, gazing at the stars for comfort. They always made him think of Michel as they’d always made Michel think of Arthur, a trail of stardust connecting the living and the dead.

“I’m back,” he calls out when he opens the door, seeing the room dimly lit by two candles, assuming his mother returned before him. He’s not used to having anyone waiting at home for him, but he’s settled into an awkward domesticity with his mother, who had no trouble working or reading and letting him sit with tea, lost in thought. It was the sort of quiet companionship they shared when he was small, together and alone all at once.

He shuts the door, bewildered at the lack of response.

“Mother?” he asks into the quiet, his instincts telling him that someone’s here, but if they’re hostile he has no weapon on him.

But when he turns around, his mother isn’t waiting for him.

“Rene,” he says, the air rushing from his chest, words abandoning him as he searches for a deep breath. “Good lord, I thought someone was here to murder me.”

“Hello,” Enjolras answers, looking shy, a quality of the child he met rather than the adult he realizes he doesn’t really know. “I am…not here to murder you.”

It’s dark aside from the two candles, their glow casting an eerie light on Enjolras’ face, leaving the corners of the house shadowy and unknown.

“Did you…were you looking for my mother?” Javert asks, gruff and awkward like the twenty-one year old who thought he had no use for playing with a little boy.

“No, but she did let me in,” Enjolras says, rising from his chair, half a regret washing across his face. “I thought I might…well…” he stops, and it unsettles Javert when he sees a rare fear flickering in Enjolras’ eyes. “I should go.”

He turns, taking a few steps toward the door; Javert almost takes his sleeve but thinks better of it, speaking instead.

“Thought you might what, Rene?” Javert echoes.

Enjolras doesn’t answer, and irritation pricks at Javert.

“Are you going to answer?” Javert snaps, sorry before the words even leave his mouth.

“Not if you speak to me like that,” Enjolras retorts, looking over his shoulder.

“Always the pirate, aren’t you?” Javert asks, hating himself for antagonizing Enjolras, yet he’s so used to the pattern he finds it near unbreakable. “Always showing me this persona, this _Avenging Angel_ , rather than the man behind him.”

“I’m both of those people at once,” Enjolras says, voice more severe now as he turns back around. He narrows his eyes, a glint like steel within them, warning Javert. “I am who I am, and if you want to know me better, I suggest you not speak to me this way.”

“The demands of a pirate,” Javert grouses. “Am I no better than a merchant captain you steal from?”

“I _am_ a pirate,” Enjolras says. “You cannot say you want to mend this, you cannot say you’re _sorry_ and then try to divide me up into pieces that you can and cannot accept. We cannot,” here, Enjolras’ voice cracks, and he clears his throat, steadying himself.”...leave our only meaningful conversations to nights when we’ve lost someone we both loved,” he continues, and Javert flashes back to that night on the deck, sobbing as Enjolras embraced him.

 _I don’t take orders from pirates_ , Javert wants to say, but he cannot force that lie from his lips, because clearly he does.

“What do you expect me to say, Rene?” Javert asks. “What do you want?”

"I expect you to do what's right and stop hiding behind what you were ordered to do," Enjolras says, calm, but his voice stands on the edge of a knife. He sighs, sadness welling up in his eyes and replacing the flash of anger. “I came to talk to you, Javert. I didn’t come to fight.”

 “I’m sorry,” Javert grumbles, altering his tone. “I…” He considers, eyes landing on the store of tea and coffee in the small kitchen. “Sit. I’ll make some coffee. It will give us something to do with our hands.”

Enjolras complies, looking wary, but sits down at the table as Javert goes over to light the stove. He reaches for the match, striking it with a masterful ferocity, meeting Rene’s eyes across the table as the flame grows, the light revealing vulnerabilities the darkness concealed. This, Javert realizes, will be the first conversation of many, because you cannot heal so gaping a wound overnight.

“What do you want to talk about?” Javert says, softening his voice.

“About my father, I suppose,” Enjolras says. “About you.”

“Me?”

“How you are,” Enjolras elaborates. “About you being here. I’ve…I’ve never seen you like you were that night, when I was sitting with you.”

Javert studies him, seeing Michel’s eyes in Rene’s face, feeling that familiar ache cascade through him, a combination of grief over Michel and worry that his relationship with Michel’s son might never repair itself.

“This house was one of the first places I ever saw on Nassau,” Enjolras muses, words leaking into the silence. “Your mother brought Frantz and Auden and I here on our first morning. We tried to steal from a man at the market, and she helped us. I learned not too long after that she was your mother. It’s a small world, sometimes.”

“What were you stealing?” Javert asks, busying himself with boiling the water.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, suddenly sounding vulnerable. “Well, food.”

“Oh,” Javert echoes, summoning images of the Enjolras household, filled with more food than he could have dreamt of as a child, finding it clashing with the image of Enjolras going hungry. He remembers Michel telling him that the trio were on their own for a year and a half before they ran into Valjean and Fantine; the words slipping from Michel’s mouth on the veranda of the house in Kingston, words spoken into the warm night over a glass of brandy, an old habit for an unusual situation. “It’s difficult, being in this region on your own. I remember being that age, jumping from ship to ship as a cabin boy. Some lasted, and some didn’t, when they realized I was Romani. Until I found East India, who I suppose just didn’t suspect.”

“Some captains kicked us off because they didn’t want Frantz. As if race has something to do with what makes you a talented sailor,” Enjolras adds angrily, watching as Javert brings the coffee around, steam rising up as the brown liquid hits the cups, and Javert knows better than to ask if Enjolras wants sugar. “Or because, well…” he looks up at Javert. “Because we realized you and my father were on our trail.”

“Did we ever get close?” Javert asks, lifting the cup to his lips and then putting it back down without taking a sip.

“In an inn, once,” Enjolras says, taking a drink. “We left through the window to get away.”

Quiet falls between them in a thick, oppressive way; through the open window Javert hears the breeze blowing through the trees.

“Rene?” Javert finally asks, and Enjolras looks up again, his eyes a striking bright blue like the water in between the shallows and the deep ocean. “Was I ever your hero?”

“What?” Enjolras asks, tilting his head.

“Valjean said,” Javert says, sorting the words out mid-sentence. “He said that when you were a boy, I was your hero.”

“You were,” Enjolras says without hesitation, and there’s no lie in his words.

“But your father,” Javert protests. “And Arthur.”

“I was allowed to have more than one,” Enjolras says. “But you were younger than them, in the middle between their age and mine. I think you were sort of…on that cusp of child in my mind. And you wanted to play with _me_ , a six-year-old.”

Javert blinks, remembering his conversation with Combeferre a week ago, a sharp pain growing in his chest and pulsating outward, throbbing and stabbing all at once.

God, what had he _done_?

And yet Rene was here still. Sitting with him. Talking to him.

“When did that end?” Javert asks.

“I don’t know that it’s as simple as that,” Enjolras admits. “But that day when my grandfather bruised my arm and I realized you didn’t stop him. That was the day I didn’t know how to trust you anymore.”

“And yet you’re here now,” Javert points out. “And I have done far worse, to you and to others.”

“I want to trust you,” Enjolras says, voice husky. “That’s _why_ I’m here.”

“You can trust a man who tried to kill you?” Javert asks, his voice cracking and betraying him.

“You didn’t want to kill me, did you?” Enjolras asks, his question disarming Javert.

“I…” Javert says, still ignoring his coffee. “No. I didn’t take pleasure in the idea, if that’s what you mean.”

“But you felt like you had to do it?”

“I thought…” Javert says, forcing himself to hold Enjolras’ gaze. “The first time I thought I could save you from the noose, because I thought the noose inevitable, and my own hand kinder. I thought I could save your father from doing something rash. The second time I…”

“You had orders,” Enjolras finishes, indulging his old childhood habit of clenching and unclenching his fist, a sign of anxiety.

“Yes,” Javert says. “But it wasn’t just that. I thought death was coming for both you and your father, and I was so afraid of so much, afraid of my own capacity to…”

“Love us?” Enjolras asks, finishing again where Javert cannot.

“It made me weak,” Javert says, his voice shaking. “It made me vulnerable.”

“It also made you strong,” Enjolras says, the words a swift punch to Javert’s stomach. “It did, Javert.”

“I knew I couldn’t kill either of you and live with that sin,” Javert says. “I barely can live with what I almost did.”

“So you planned to take your own life,” Enjolras says, understanding. “I see.”

“Why does it matter if I wanted to kill you?” Javert asks. “I still tried. And not only that, I tried to have people you love killed. Your way of life.”

“It’s difficult for me,” Enjolras admits. “It’s why I couldn’t make myself come, at first, even if I wanted to. But I saw the chance for a change in you, that perhaps you wanted a new path. And I…the fact that you didn’t want to kill me at least opened up the avenue that you still cared. About me.”

“I do,” Javert says, remembering the night Michel died, remembering the desperate, clawing feeling in his chest, hot, agonizing, and unrelenting, all the words left unsaid pounding against his skull. So many chances, so many years, and he’d left most of them until the last. “Rene, I’m…” he swallows. “I’m _sorry_ about your father. I know it wasn’t my hand but I’m still just…” he stumbles over the words. “I wish I could have stopped your grandfather.”

There it was, the shared loss binding their spirits together in the muck of everything standing between them, in the muck of their rage and their pain and their memories of one another battling against their present selves.

Enjolras stares at him, opening his mouth and closing it again. Javert watches him breathe in deep in some kind of effort at control before resting his head in his hands, fingers curling into his hair, a few strands come loose from his queue.

“Rene?” Javert asks.

“I just…” Enjolras says, that firm voice ordering Javert back up onto the deck a few weeks ago turned soft and vulnerable. “I need a minute.”

Javert gives it to him, but when it passes and Enjolras doesn’t speak again Javert feels a fierce and sudden need to comfort the younger man, even if he doesn’t know how. He rises from the chair and pulls it around the table closer to Enjolras, feeling the ghost of Michel as good as possessing him. Enjolras moves his hands away from his face, threading his fingers through his hair instead, gaze still stuck on the floor. Javert remembers carrying this little boy home from the beach, that warm feeling spreading through his chest when he saw the blond hairs left behind on his coat. That feeling explodes now as he looks at the boy he cast aside in the name of authority, and it runs down down down, filling him entirely.

 _He thinks of you like his brother, you know_ , Combeferre’s voice says in his head.

Javert never wanted children, but as he looks at the young man before him grieving the loss of a man who was like a father to both of them, he feels a piece of what he thinks it must be like to have a son. He hesitates, then reaches out with one arm, wrapping it around Enjolras, who looks up, his body stiffening.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, meeting his eyes again.

Javert raises one eyebrow. “I believe it’s called a hug,” Javert says, dry. “You’ve probably heard of it before.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, loosening his limbs.

Javert continues, one arm going around Enjolras’ shoulders before he does the same with the other. Enjolras mirrors him, fingers pressing into Javert’s jacket.

“I’m sorry, Rene,” Javert whispers. “For all of it.”

“You asked me that night my father died, if I was lonely. I’m not,” Enjolras says, keeping a hold of the embrace. “I’m not that child desperate for a friend. But I’d hope that my wanting you here as an adult would be worth as much as my needing you as a child.”

Something roars to life in the pit of Javert’s stomach, a sharp, slashing pain that moves up to his chest and then to his throat, his eyes stinging with tears that cut like miniscule shards of glass, his vision blurry. A strangled sob forces itself from his mouth, a sound giving the impression of someone tightening a noose around his neck. He pulls back from the embrace, but Enjolras’ hands don’t let go, sliding down to the crooks of Javert’s elbows.

“Javert?” he asks, imploring.

“You are the last person who should have to listen to me,” Javert says.

“I want to listen,” Enjolras answers, removing one hand and placing it carefully on Javert’s face.

“That night,” Javert begins, voice weary and ragged and half-ruined. “As I stood on the rail of your ship, falling to the bottom of the ocean seemed like the only answer. Your father was dead, and I was certain trying to finish what he started would crush me on the spot. Because it meant the rules I followed all my life, the ideas about morality I carried with me, were wrong. I hated that and yet felt relieved all at once. I was certain you hated me and I was disgusted that I’d let myself become what I had always despised most; the officer driven by corrupt men, rather than by justice. That perhaps for so long, I’d mistaken the machinations of powerful men as morality.”

“My grandfather has a way of getting inside people’s minds,” Enjolras says, a censored rage in his voice. “He threatens and manipulates and turns you inside out until you’re not entirely sure which way is up and which way is out. I know he threatened you. Cruelly used the fact that you were Romani against you, as if that should be some sort of slur. It shouldn’t, Javert.”

“This is about more than just your grandfather. But I let him do that,” Javert says, looking up as Enjolras removes the hand from his cheek and wipes his own eyes, the second hand still resting in the crook of Javert’s elbow. “At first because I was so afraid he would tell Admiral Adams about my heritage. But the truth is he did that anyway, weeks before he sent me out after you, and I kept going. I was complicit in his treatment of you and of Frantz long before that. Complicit in things I was convinced kept order, no matter the human suffering I saw.”

Enjolras pauses, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s go look at the stars,” Enjolras says. “Come on.”

Javert obeys.

Enjolras takes him by the wrist, leading him by instinct toward Javert’s usual haunt. They sit on the sand near the surf, and Javert’s reminded of another conversation on a night like this so many years ago.

_Did my father send you?_

_No. I was simply out walking and saw you here. Seems we share a similar favorite spot. Though you usually prefer the sunrise to the stars._

“I miss him, too,” Enjolras says, shedding his boots and letting the water rush up over his feet. “Is that why you weren’t drinking your coffee? Because it makes you think of him?”

Javert nods but doesn’t speak, letting Enjolras steer the conversation.

“As the years passed,” Enjolras begins. “I wondered what might happen if I ever saw my father again. At first it was what I expected, with all the pain and the anger and the arguments. But then I saw it, that look in his eyes revealing the man I saw all along when I was a boy. That man who would do what was right, but he couldn’t seem to access how, and I worried I was wrong. But then he showed up here, then he went on a voyage with us, and it felt so right, after a while.”

“He loved you,” Javert says. “Every moment you were gone.”

“I know,” Enjolras answers, eyes scanning the stars and landing on a fading Orion, the constellation losing its shine as April turned into May. Soon it would only rise in the daylight, not visible to them until winter came. “He loved you, too.”

“I don’t know if I can do what he asked of me Rene,” Javert says. “I don’t know how.”

“I think you already are,” Enjolras says, laying a hand on Javert’s arm. “I think he’d understand if you couldn’t do it all at once.”

“I barely know what to do without him here,” Javert says.

“I know,” Enjolras replies, squeezing his arm now, offering a quick smile.

“I don’t know how to be a pirate,” Javert says. “I don’t know if I can. But I am sorry for every scar I ever left you.”

“I’m sorry anyone ever told you that your birth made you lesser than anyone else,” Enjolras says, that earnest sincerity in his voice, a staple leftover from childhood.

Enjolras looks at him again, and Javert reaches out toward the tiny scar over Enjolras’ eyebrow, left by the East India ring Javert still wears, that long ago birthday gift from Michel. Javert runs a finger over the old wound, and to his surprise, though Enjolras tenses, he doesn’t flinch.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the hum of the ocean, the water as much a part of each of them as the blood in their veins. Somewhere off in the distance Javert hears a cacophony of laughter echo into the air, and he thinks perhaps he understands what drew Enjolras to this place, what made Valjean call it home, and what made Michel stay. There’s an electric feeling in the air, as if the people on this island have discovered something the rest of the world cannot yet fathom, everything wrapped in the bittersweet knowledge that the colony is not likely to last forever, that England will come and the pirates will go, vindicated with the knowledge that one day, these democratic ideas practiced on Nassau will spread outward to the civilization they fight against now. The future might not grant them credit, but the pirates soldiered on anyway, confident in history’s eyes watching them.

A few weeks ago, Javert couldn’t have believed the thoughts running through his head, but here he was on the island he once vowed he’d bring down, an island lacking the order and the authority and the hierarchy to which he’s dedicated his life for so long.

He scarcely knew how, but now he could perhaps dedicate his life to something new, starting with the young man beside him.

“Well,” Javert says, chuckling and drawing Enjolras’ bewildered gaze. “I suppose I really should have insisted you be the pirate in those games we played.”

Enjolras laughs, soft and sincere, the sound making Javert smile no matter how many times he complains at Valjean for doing the same.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, directing his first genuine smile at Javert for the first time in years, and some of that pain in Javert’s chest dies down. “I suppose you should have.”

* * *

**June 1716.**

“Can you explain to me again why you want to grow tomatoes?”

Tiena sighs, squatting down again in her garden, determining whether or not there’s enough sunlight in this patch.

“Because one of the pirates was talking to me about them in the shop the other day,” Tiena says. “He grew them growing up in Mexico. I like them, and they should be easy to grow in this climate.”

“All right,” Javert answers, still sounding unconvinced. “But what are you going to _do_ with them?”

“Nicholas, my dear,” Tiena says, rising up again and dusting her hands on her skirt. “Sometimes one does things simply for the pure joy of seeing if they can.”

“Oh,” he replies as if this had not occurred to him.

“You could sell them too, I’m sure,” Fantine says from her perch on the grass between Cosette and Astra. Chantal sits on Cosette’s other side, braiding the younger woman’s hair. “Aside from just eating them yourself.”

“She owns a clothing shop,” Javert points out, snide, the tension between him and Fantine still palpable, but improving. Fantine was wary and Tiena understood full well why, but she was also one of the most compassionate people Tiena knew, a quality that led her to give Javert a chance, despite it all.

“And you used to be a naval officer,” Fantine shoots back. “New experiences for all.”

Javert huffs and Tiena covers a laugh, internally pleased at seeing her friends and her son able to at least be in the same area without a fight breaking out, something she couldn’t have foreseen a few months ago.

“Frantz and Jehan know a good bit about tending to plants,” Chantal says, tying up Cosette’s plait with a ribbon. “They’d be happy to help you start off, I’m sure.”

“Good thought,” Fantine says. “They’ve kept that sea grape plant alive for years now. Though we’re setting sail in a week, so I’d ask them soon.”

“How long will you be gone?” Javert asks, and Tiena watches surprise wash across Fantine’s face at his curious tone.

“Not entirely sure,” she says, slow. “But likely a month or so, depending on our luck. The crews need some normalcy, right now.”

“Are you accompanying them, Astra?” Tiena asks.

“I am,” Astra says, brightening, and the difference in her face compared to the night of her arrival doesn’t skip Tiena’s notice. They’d both watched as their sons sorted out their relationship with one another, both understanding the complexities and the baggage. Their own friendship grew alongside the struggles of their children. She looks over at Nicholas, who stands on the metaphorical doorway of this world she’s lived in for so long, looking both desperate and scared to enter.

“Astra’s getting quite talented with a dirk now that Fantine’s training her,” Chantal says, winking at Astra, who blushes. “I suspect she will be the terror of the seas in due time.”

“Like mother like son, perhaps?” Cosette teases, and Astra laughs, eyes flitting over to Javert, who’s bent down near the patch of garden Tiena’s selected for the tomatoes, examining the area.

“I’m not sure about that,” Astra says, patting Cosette’s arm. “I’m certainly not used to wielding weaponry like Rene, but I do admit I am better at it than previously expected.”

“Michel would be impressed,” Javert mutters absentmindedly, looking at some of the seeds Tiena handed him. “A bit nervous perhaps, but impressed.”

“Oh,” Astra says, a tiny, unsure smile forming on her lips. “Well, thank you, Nicholas.”

“He told me once that he’d thought about giving you lessons in self-defense,” Javert continues in that odd, far-away voice Tiena’s heard when he talks about Michel, as if he can’t quite grasp his grief entirely yet. “When you moved to Jamaica, just in case. But he worried what people might think, and he knew your father likely wouldn’t allow him.”

Whatever Astra might have said in response to this is interrupted by the arrival of Feuilly, Bahorel walking beside him.

“Ladies,” Bahorel says, tipping his hat, revealing his long black curls tied back at the nape of his neck. “My dear,” he adds, walking over to Fantine and pressing a kiss to her hand.

Fantine’s smile reaches her eyes, and she keeps his hand.

“Ever the charmer, aren’t you?” she asks.

“Of course,” he says, winking.

Fantine’s gaze flits over to Feuilly, who rolls his eyes fondly, a smile flickering on his own lips.

“What brings you?” Cosette asks.

“Bahorel and I have a proposition for Javert,” Feuilly says, and Tiena watches the lines in his face grow taught as he looks at her son, who looks back, surprised.

“For me?” Javert asks.

“The _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ both need some work done before we set out next week,” Feuilly says. “And I was thinking, if you were interested, you could help us with some of the repairs.”

“Me?” Javert asks again, eyes widening, and Tiena finds herself scarcely less stunned.

“Enjolras told me you were a boatswain’s mate in some of your first years with East India, Feuilly says. “When you first started on his father’s crew.”

“And when I was a bit younger than that, as well,” Javert adds, slow. “I’m sorry, I’m just being clear, you want _my_ help?”

“You know ships, don’t you?” Bahorel interjects, letting go of Fantine’s hand, and Feuilly shoots him a look.

“I’d say so,” Javert answers, eyeing Bahorel with suspicion.

“What do you say, then?”  Feuilly asks, more polite than his friend, distrust in his voice but interest in his eyes.

Tiena watches thoughts roam across Nicholas’ face, a decision forming.

“All right,” he says, nodding.

“Good,” Feuilly says, awkward. “Uncle Jean’s boatswain Tiano and I will be supervising, along with Bossuet. “Bahorel knows nearly everyone on the island, and thought if this goes well he could put you in touch with some other crews.”

“Captains Bellamy and Robins were particularly interested,” Bahorel says.

“ _Robins_?” Javert asks, disbelief in his voice. “I _arrested_ Robins.”

“He believes in second chances,” Feuilly says, voice low.

“Fantine,” Tiena whispers in the other woman’s ear as she watches the three of them discuss details. “Did you know about this?”

“I did,” Fantine says. “Valjean and Rene discussed it with Courfeyrac and me before putting the idea to Jahni and Tiano, who were interested.”

“Thank you,” Tiena says, pressing Fantine’s hand. “I think it will be good for him.”

“I do, too,” Fantine says, putting a kiss on Tiena’s cheek. “And you’re welcome.”

Twenty minutes later the others bid them farewell, leaving Tiena and Javert alone as the sun sets, casting shadows across the patch of garden they’ve been inspecting.

“Well,” Javert says. “If you think you’ve got the room here, I’ll help you with the tomatoes.”

“Nicholas…”

“What?” Javert asks, defensive before she finishes her sentence. “I’m not much use to you at your shop, you’ve got Chantal and your other workers, and I can only clean the house so many times.”

“That’s not what I was going to say,” Tiena says, putting a hand on his arm. “Though I am glad to have you help me with the garden. I was going to say I’m glad you accepted the offer to help them with the ships.”

“Oh,” Javert says, eyes going down to her hand on his arm, hesitant before he puts his own over hers. “Well, it can’t hurt to be useful, I suppose.”

“It can’t,” Tiena says, careful not to push him. There was no doubt he was still sorting out the moral ground beneath his feet, figuring out where he stood and what he should do. “But I think their offer was a bit more than that.”

“They asked because Rene and Valjean put it to them,” Javert says, eyes looking out toward the golden twilight before them, the sun’s rays striking the trees as it sinks slowly down. “My relationships with them are getting better, but I’m not fool enough to imagine the rest of the crew would feel similarly.”

“I know these people, and have for a long while,” Tiena says. “And believe me when I say, even if Rene and Valjean wanted it, they wouldn’t force their crews to do anything they weren’t comfortable with, and Valjean certainly wouldn’t ask that of his nephew.”

Javert processes this information, then gives her the tight, shy smile she remembers from childhood.

“Perhaps I didn’t always give your credit for your wisdom,” he says, walking back toward the house. “I should have.”

“A high compliment,” Tiena says, teasing. She pauses, studying him as they walk inside, shutting the door behind them. “Nicholas?”

“Hmm?” he asks, making a beeline for the stash of tea.

“Do you think you’ll ever sail with them?” she continues. “On the _Misericorde_ or the _Liberte_?”

Javert stops, hand curling over an empty mug.

“Michel would have liked me to sail with Rene,” he answers. “To…continue what he began. But I am…” he halts, busying himself with the tea preparation again. “Perhaps one day.”

“Perhaps one day,” Tiena echoes, one hand trailing across his back, still convincing herself he’s real.

* * *

**August 1716.**

“You are the most stubborn person alive,” Enjolras says, stopping in his tracks in the sand, crossing his arms over his chest.

“ _I_ am?” Javert says, arguing back. “I think you’ve got that fairly well covered yourself.”

“And _you_ have proved my point,” Enjolras says, raising his eyebrows.

“Now now,” Valjean says, and Enjolras feels the older man’s gaze on them. “We’re just having a conversation.”

“How have I proved your point?” Javert asks, incredulous, and Valjean sighs.

“By arguing with me about how stubborn you are,” Enjolras says, trying very hard not to smile.

“Anyway,” Javert presses. “All I’m saying is that scaring the living daylights out of people may not be the best strategy.”

“So you suppose that by being polite we can bring down the slave trade?” Enjolras asks, annoyed. “Also I’m quite sure you scared plenty of people, so don’t be a hypocrite.”

“I didn’t set my beard on fire or some such nonsense,” Javert says. “And no, I’m saying you could petition those in power, show them how things work here, or…”

“Come now Javert,” Valjean says, cutting in. “You know full well they don’t respect us enough to give us the time of day for something like that. They think us heathens. People have been petitioning the British government to stop impressment for years, and though one day I hope that has an effect, it has not yet done so.”

“Fine,” Javert grumbles. “But the violence is…”

“Civilization is violent,” Enjolras says, continuing to walk now, stepping into the water as it laps playfully at his ankles. “I wish we didn’t have to be violent in return, but we’re not there yet. Besides, any violence we commit cannot hold a candle to theirs. You were in it, Javert, you know I’m right.”

“Perhaps,” Javert says, begrudging, but Enjolras hears the change in his voice. “But you believe in this future, this…revolution of progress?”

“I think we’ll get there someday,” Enjolras says. “Frantz certainly believes it, though he points out the difference between say, the progress of medical or scientific discoveries and the progress of human equality. The former is a kind of slow dawn of the human mind as we discover new things and build on the old. The second may always require a bit of a conflagration, though hopefully one day those things can be fought for with better governments and education and a voice for all. But I’m afraid now it’s going to be bloodier than we like. It pains me to say so. But that’s also part of why the scare tactics work; we can take ships without firing a shot, sometimes.”

“Fair point,” Javert admits.

“The less life lost, the better,” Enjolras continues. “Most of the sailors on those ships are men barely paid enough to get by, particularly on merchant vessels. But you know that, yourself. “

Javert doesn’t answer for a minute, and Enjolras watches him process the words, gray eyes lit up with thought.

“Yes I suppose I do,” he answers, softer than before. “And this is what that Myriel fellow taught you?” Javert asks, turning to Valjean.

“He did,” Valjean answers. “Though we’ve expanded a bit on his original foundation.”

“How so?” Javert asks, and Enjolras feels a bubble of relief and joy in his chest at the intrigue in Javert’s voice; it was a slow journey, but Javert _was_ moving forward.

“Myriel mainly focused on slave ships,” Valjean answers. “And that is a big part of what we do. But we also steal from regular merchant ships, and go after the navy for their impressment practices, so we’re fighting on more fronts. The first assures that we keep money in the men’s pockets, which is something Myriel struggled with sometimes, and we can also give some away.”

“Robin Hood and his men,” Javert says, arching one eyebrow and smirking at Valjean.

“So the tales say,” Valjean says, chuckling.

“So what does that make you then?” Javert says, turning back toward Enjolras, a rare mischievous glint in his eyes. “Robin Hood the second? Robin Hood the Frightening Angel?”

“Avenging,” Enjolras corrects, narrowing his eyes.

“Right yes of course,” Javert says. “How could I forget? They did rather a good drawing of you several years ago in the papers, if I remember. Pointy teeth and all.”

Enjolras steps further back into the water, dipping his hand in and splashing water in Javert’s direction. It flies forward, the spray hitting Javert full in the face. Javert wipes his eyes, blinking in shock, and Enjolras bends over, releasing an undignified chortle.

“Oh you think you’re funny do you?” Javert says, stepping forward now, his own hand going into the water. “You are a foul boy.”

Now Enjolras finds himself with a face full of water as Javert retaliates, blinded, droplets clinging to his hair. He dips his own hand in the water again, but before he can finish he hears a joyful whoop behind him and then quite suddenly finds himself fully submerged in the water, sand sticking to his skin. He shakes his head, getting the water out of his eyes and looking up to see Courfeyrac giggling madly beside him, drenched.

“I suppose you think you’re amusing?” Enjolras says, his lips twitching, and he smiles at Courfeyrac, unable to remain stern.

“He _thinks_ he is utterly hilarious,” Jean Provaire says, approaching and putting his hand out, helping Enjolras from the surf. “Sorry, Enjolras. Even I cannot stop a madman.”

“I am a delight,” Courfeyrac says, putting his hand out to Prouvaire, but he only pulls Prouvaire down as well. Prouvaire laughs, waving as Bahorel, Combeferre, and Feuilly approach them, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet not far behind.

Cosette runs up to Valjean’s side now, putting a hand around her adoptive father’s waist.

“Bit wet, are you?” she asks, winking at Enjolras.

“A tad,” Enjolras says.

He steps forward, but Courfeyrac only pulls him back down into the water, looking merry.

“You are determined to soak me through and through,” Enjolras complains.

“My dear man,” Courfeyrac says, pushing one wet curl behind Enjolras’ ear, fond, though his gaze darkens when he glances quickly at Javert, still not entirely trusting him. “You are a sailor. A feared pirate captain. Did a little water ever hurt you?”

 “Maybe not,” Combeferre says from behind them, dry. “But it did perhaps, make him want to drown a close friend.”

Courfeyrac turns his attention to Combeferre, settling for flicking water in his direction when Combeferre darts too far away to be pulled down into the surf. Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras sees a hand reaching toward him, an offer of help.

“Your friends are ridiculous,” Javert says, still dripping wet, a strange gentleness in his expression as he glances at Valjean and Cosette, who are talking together.

“So they are,” Enjolras says, accepting Javert’s hand and standing up again, the sand glittering on his skin in the sunlight. “You like them.”

“I do not,” Javert says, firm, breaking eye contact too quickly.

“Yes you do,” Enjolras says, flicking Javert in the arm.

“Sometimes you are frightfully like Auden,” Javert counters. “Or perhaps perpetually six.”

“Perhaps I’ll always be a bit of a six-year-old with you,” Enjolras says, hearing a sudden smack of emotion in his voice. “Old habit.”

Javert meets his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t try and clear away his smile.

* * *

**October 1716.**

Enjolras sees sees the privateer ship putting down their anchor in the bay as his longboat hits the sand. The _Misericorde_ and the _Liberte_ came back from a voyage yesterday and he’d left his ship’s log in his cabin, which Marius needed for some of his record keeping. They’d focused their efforts off the coast of Florida, going after a merchant captain known for his cruelty, taking not just his gold, but a few men from the crew who jumped ship.

Enjolras climbs out of the boat, seeing a stray newspaper out of Kingston with the headline _Pirates continue stifling shipping in the Caribbean and the American colonies_ blazing across the top. He looks across, watching the passengers from the privateer ship pile into longboats, all sailors except for one lone woman, wearing a proper dress like his mother wore before she arrived in Nassau. A few privateers discreetly trading on Nassau was nothing new, but a woman like that certainly was. He waits, studying the longboat until it comes ashore. The woman steps out without much help from the privateers, who are no doubt keen to go in and out quickly, and he can tell from her wobbly step she still has a strong case of sea legs, particularly while toting her heavy trunk. He moves closer, putting his hand out when she stumbles, catching her.

“Oh!” she exclaims, grasping his hand while she rights herself, and though she looks nervous, she doesn’t look as frightened as he’d expect from someone just arriving on a pirate island for the first time. “Well thank you, you’re very charming aren’t you? I like your coat. Nice red.”

“Oh,” he says, slow. “Thank you. You look…new. Do you need help finding something? Or someone?”

“I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?” she asks, looking down at her dress, which is a shade of emerald green. “I barely knew what to wear, and my brother could barely get the privateer to take me here in the first place, you know. Paid them quite a sum, I know.”

She stops, putting a hand to her chest, and she does look scared now.

“Are you all right?” Enjolras asks, simultaneously bewildered and charmed.

"...I've just realized I've traveled across the Atlantic without asking the person I've come to see if it's all right,” she says. “I am presumptuous aren't I?”

“I’m sure if you traveled from England,” Enjolras says. “The person would want to see you, if you want to see them enough to come all the way here.”

She nods with a vague air, surveying him, eyes widening. “You know you look astonishingly like...” she stops for a second, squinting. “Your name wouldn’t happen to be Rene Enjolras, would it?” she asks, looking hopeful.

“It is,” Enjolras says, very confused now. “I…”

“Oh,” Imogen breathes. “You’re Astra’s boy, I can’t believe it. You do look like her, though you have your father’s eyes, from what I remember meeting him the once. Oh. Oh my goodness.”

She looks near to tears, and then it dawns on Enjolras.

Imogen.

“You’re Imogen Barnes,” Enjolras says, a delighted shock pulsating through him. “I uh…you and my mother…”

“She told you about me?” Imogen asks, and she is crying now, a shaky smile on her lips.

“Not long after she arrived here,” Enjolras replies. “My god, she’ll…she’s going to faint when she sees you.”

“Out of joy, I hope?”

“I should say so,” Enjolras says.

“Oh,” Imogen says, hand going to her chest again. “Oh I am…”

Enjolras puts out his hand again, an offer of steadiness, and she takes it, smiling wider.

“Your mother and I knew we couldn’t write to each other, not without being discovered and being so far apart,” Imogen says, dark green eyes bright, pushing a strand of chestnut hair streaked with some silver behind her ear. “But the one letter she managed to get to me was after you were born. She loved you so very much that it made me love you too, because you were hers.”

Struck by the love in her voice, Enjolras feels his hands start shaking from emotion. His mother had waited for so, _so_ long and somehow, Imogen was here.

 “May I hug you?” Imogen asks.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, surprised, but he doesn’t want to deny her. “Certainly.”

She’s warm when she embraces him, still smiling when they pull apart.

“I’m so sorry about your father,” she says, soft. “I don’t have all the details but from what I do know I imagine you must have reconciled after a long time and then lost him shortly after.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, the mention of his father still leaving him with that bittersweet ache in the pit of his stomach. “I…I am sure he couldn’t have been your favorite person.”

“I don’t blame him for what happened,” Imogen says, more forthcoming than Enjolras expects. “He didn’t even know, and I could tell just from meeting him that he was falling for your mother, too. Easy to do. So we had that in common.”

“She’s on the beach nearby,” Enjolras says, focusing now. “I’ll take you to her. She’s…she was so hoping to hear from you. Let me take your trunk.”

“Perhaps I should have just sent a letter first,” Imogen says, looking embarrassed, though she wears it strangely as if not used to the feeling. “But when I heard your grandfather arrived in England I simply…” she stops at seeing him flinch a bit at the mention of his grandfather, an old instinct flaring up again after watching his father die at his grandfather’s hand.

“Is that how you heard about my father?” Enjolras asks.

“News spread of Michel’s death when the unfortunate Baron Travers arrived in London, yes,” an undeniable undercurrent of fury in her voice.

“Did my mother tell you,” Enjolras asks, somehow trusting her already. “About…”

“How he treated you?” Imogen asks, finishing his sentence. “Yes. In the letter she sent from here, though it took a while to reach my brother’s house because she didn’t have his address, and it went to my parents’ old home. But your grandfather arrived in London, and it was a bit difficult to get the truth. Rumors followed him that his daughter was lost to piracy like his grandson. That he’d killed his own son in law.”

“He did,” Enjolras says, looking over at her, solemn. But ahead of them he spots his mother sitting with Fantine, Chantal, and Tiena, her back to them, and he saves the rest of the story for later. “But she’s just there,” he says, pointing in the direction of his mother, and when Imogen’s eyes follow, her hands start shaking. “Would you like me to go get her?” he asks. “Would that be easier?”

“Yes please dear,” Imogen says, eyes sparkling and filling with tears. “Thank you.”

* * *

Astra smiles when she feels the familiar hand on her shoulder.

“Hello Rene,” she says. “Come join us, won’t you?”

“Maman,” Enjolras says, the old childhood endearment he uses when he’s feeling vulnerable or something’s wrong spilling from his mouth.

“What’s the matter?” she asks, turning toward him, confused when she sees him dropping a heavy trunk onto the sand, looking a bit winded.

“I…” he tries uncharacteristically ineloquent. “You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Astra asks, confused.

She turns, eyes landing on the person in question, releasing a sharp gasp, one hand going to her chest.

Thirty years had passed, but she knew that face anywhere.

Imogen.

She gets up from the chair slowly, waiting for what must be a hallucination to disappear.

She couldn’t be here. It could not possibly be real.

“Astra?” Fantine asks. “Are you all right?”

“I um…I…” Astra stutters. The mirage that looks like Imogen looks back from several yards away, smiling.

“She’s real,” Enjolras says, voice warm and reassuring. “Either that, or I hallucinated her as well.”

Astra stays frozen, staring at Imogen, who stares back. Imogen was usually the initiator; their first kiss, their first time being intimate, their first I love you. Astra felt those same things too, wholeheartedly, but there was always fear: fear of her father, fear of being discovered, fear of Imogen deciding it was all too much. They’d been friends since they were children, and Astra fell in love at sixteen, holding onto that until eighteen, when she realized Imogen felt the same. Her father discovered them at twenty-two, and six months later Michel was her husband. She looks over at Rene, who smiles back, nodding in encouragement. She looks behind at Fantine, Chantal, and Tiena, who all grin at her.

There’s no judgement, there’s only love, and she unfreezes, feeling the fear rush out of her, replaced with a happiness so strong it beats warm against her chest, a bubble of pure joy.

She picks up her skirt, and runs.

She kicks up sand as she goes, seeing Imogen open her arms, happy tears flooding down her cheeks.

Imogen catches her, and they crush together in a tight embrace.  

First, Astra can’t really speak. All she can do is press Imogen to her as close as possible, all she can do is focus on the feel of Imogen’s arms around her, all she can focus on is Imogen somehow here and real and alive in Nassau. When they pull apart Imogen searches Astra’s face, looking hesitant. Imogen, Astra recalls, was never hesitant about anything.

“I was worried I made the wrong choice,” Imogen says. “That I’d be interrupting your life here.”

“Imogen,” Astra says, treasuring the name on her lips. “God, no. I scarcely hoped for a letter, let alone you, here, I…the risks you had to take to get here, what you’re giving up.”

“All I’m giving up is taking advantages of my brother’s kindness and endless days reading books and strolling the streets in London,” Imogen says. “Whatever I’d be giving up, you’re worth it.”

“This isn’t civilization,” Astra says. “Not like we’re used to.”

“I know,” Imogen says, pulling her closer again. “But civilization hasn’t been kind to me. And I can tell you love it here, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Astra says. “I do.”

“That’s all I need to know,” Imogen says, taking one of Astra’s hands and lacing their fingers.

“You came all the way across an ocean for someone you loved thirty years ago,” Astra says, tears spilling from her overfull eyes. “You came to a pirate island.”

“I loved you then and I loved you now,” Imogen says, firm, a grin slipping onto her face. “Besides, I’m certain I could love a pirate. Sounds like an adventure.”

Astra laughs, smiling so hard it hurts. “Your brother’s fine with this?”

“My brother wants me to be happy,” Imogen says. “Which is more than I can say for my parents.”

“They’re gone, I assume?” Astra asks.

“About fifteen years ago,” Imogen answers. “But Michael’s been looking after me since.”

“You never married?”

“No one would marry me,” Imogen says, shrugging her shoulders. “Not with all the rumors.” She pauses, taking Astra’s other hand. “I am sorry about Michel, Astra. Rene confirmed what people had been talking about all over London, saying that your father shot him. The same bastard I remembered, it seems.”

“When Michel was dying,” Astra says, voice trembling. “One of the last things he said to me was that he hoped I heard from you.” Astra breathes in, the memory of that moment striking her, conscious of the wedding ring worn on a chain around her neck. “But yes. My father is still a bastard.”

“Your boy is beautiful,” Imogen says, squeezing Astra’s hands. “Quite the pirate captain, is he?”

“He is,” Astra says, looking back at Enjolras, who beams. “I’m quite proud of him.”

She turns back, memorizing every inch of Imogen’s face. She slides a hand against Imogen’s cheek, their eyes meeting before Astra kisses her, something electric spreading through her, feeling like two puzzle pieces snapping perfectly together. Imogen returns the kiss, smiling into it, and Astra cannot even care that there are people watching them. They break apart, their foreheads resting together. Behind them, Astra hears clapping, feeling a blush flood her cheeks.

“Perhaps I should introduce you to my friends,” Astra says, taking Imogen’s hand. Imogen’s eyes fall on the bracelet, the sunlight glinting off the gold.

“You kept it,” Imogen whispers, smiling at the other women and Enjolras as she and Astra approach.

“Of course I kept it,” Astra says. “It was from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh two chapters left to go!! I can't believe it.


	35. Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras recieves a letter from his uncle in France, while Astra and Javert start making amends. The crews of the Misericorde and the Liberte return to the sea more regularly after the events of the year past, and Javert settles into a routine on Nassau, unable, just yet, to make himself sail with the pirates. Nassau bids farewell to one of it's most famous names, and somewhere on the horizon, civilization lurks, taking the first step in launching it's offensive against the island in it's war on piracy itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple of historical notes here!
> 
> I use the word neveu, which is French for nephew. 
> 
> I refer to Edward Teach as being a sort of chosen magistrate on Nassau, which was apparently a thing!

**Nassau. Christmas, 1716.**

 “Well,” Imogen says, taking a sip of her wine. “I don’t usually feel pangs for England, but I _can_ say I do miss the snow on Christmas. Or at least the _hint_ of a chill in the air.”

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” Astra says, her arm fit snug around Imogen’s waist as they sit in the tavern on Christmas Day with the entire crews of both ships. “It’s just hot. All the time.”

Sitting on his mother’s other side, Enjolras feels Imogen reach across Astra’s back, tickling him.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, batting her hand away, Astra laughing between them. “You know I’m ticklish, Imogen.”

“Your great secret that Auden divulged to me,” she says, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

“It’s an entire ten degrees cooler than normal,” Chantal says, sitting across from them next to Fantine and Cosette. “We should be grateful.”

“Yes quite the time to bundle up,” Combeferre says, smirking at his mother.

“Are you sassing me, son?” Chantal asks, mirth in her eyes.

“Combeferre never sasses _anyone_ ,” Bahorel cuts in, amused, clapping Combeferre on the back.

“Sarcasm causes illness,” Combeferre says, trying mightily to frown. “Ask Joly.”

“If that were true,” Joly says, taking a sip of his mead, deadpan. “Then you would be dead by now.”

This draws laughter from the entire gathered group, and when Enjolras looks over at Javert, who sits more toward the corner talking with Tiena and Valjean, he sees a smile break onto his face at the antics. Feuilly laughs so heartily that he chokes on his wine, Prouvaire patting his back.

“Remind me why I’m friends with all of you,” Combeferre says, biting his lip against a grin.

“Because we’re infinitely charming,” Bossuet says. “And we are always glad to listen to you talk about rare plants and their uses, or obscure philosophy, for instance.”

“And the history of celestial navigation,” Grantaire adds.

“And…” Courfeyrac tries, before Combeferre claps a hand over his mouth.

“Yes I think I’ve quite gotten it,” Combeferre says.

“You’re all teasing the man mercilessly on Christmas,” Feuilly says. “Not very charitable of you.”

“And you are a devout Christian are you, Jahni?” Cosette teases, her smile reaching her eyes.

“Not exactly,” Feuilly protests, still looking fondly over at her. “But still, the spirit of the day….”

“The spirit of the day,” comes a deep voice from behind them. “Brings mail.”

Edward Teach walks up to their table, plopping a battered envelope down next to Enjolras. Enjolras nearly laughs when he sees Imogen, still amazed at the sight of legendary pirates occupying the same space as her, gazing at Blackbeard, eyes wide with far more wonder than fear.

“For me?” Enjolras inquires.

“Unless England has planted a spy that happens to look just like you,” Teach says, something like a smile emerging through his tangled, slightly singed beard. “You don’t have a twin brother, do you?

“No,” Enjolras says. “Decidedly not.”

“For you, then. A privateer pulled in tonight, for some reason,” Teach tips his hat in the direction of the women in their group. “Ladies.”

“Say,” Imogen asks one he’s out of earshot. “Does he really set his beard on fire?”

“He does,” Prouvaire says cheerily. “It’s why it always smells a bit like smoke when he walks by.”

“I can’t believe there’s a letter,” Enjolras says, quizzical. “Especially on Christmas?”

“Surprised at a letter at all,” Combeferre says, peering over at the address.

“Sometimes people get letters,” Courfeyrac protests.

“If someone manages to hand them off the right person at the right time,” Combeferre says, looking at the stamps on the envelope, which is devoid of address. “That letter’s from Paris.”

“So it is,” Enjolras murmurs, taking the butter knife Feuilly hands him to open the envelope. He pulls out the paper, seeing the Enjolras family seal stamped by the letter head.

His uncle.

“Is that from Remy?” Astra asks, letting go of Imogen’s waist and leaning over closer.

“I think so,” Enjolras answers, shifting the pages and looking for the signature. “Yes.”

He unfolds the pages, flattening them out.

_Rene,_

_To be quite honest with you, it feels strange even writing your name here. I was certain we had lost you long ago, convinced to the point of trying to talk your father into returning to Paris with your mother so he might have us as comfort in the loss._

_I have asked myself a dozen times why your father didn’t write to me and tell me of his plans. But then, I suppose it could have been intercepted, or he feared incriminating me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I received your letter about a week after a friend returned from London with wild stories of your grandfather’s return from Jamaica in shame and complete with rumors that Michel was dead, that you and your mother were lost to piracy. Even rumors that he’d killed Michel with his own hands. I didn’t know what to believe, and my grief was such that I wanted to convince myself the part of that story where my brother was dead wasn’t true. But then your letter arrived, confirming all of it. I do appreciate your efforts in letting us know in a less shocking way._

_I’m afraid I don’t know what to say, Rene._

_My parents took the news badly, and it certainly wasn’t good for people of their age. Your Aunt Sophie has been ill with grief. My good sense tells me to condemn this piracy of yours outright. But that would also mean condemning my brother. Condemning you, my nephew. Condemning the fact that after so long, Michel got his greatest wish; finding you and Frantz again. My oldest son questions my softness on the issue, but I told him to consider how he might feel if it were his brother or his son. I have imparted the news to Arthur’s mother and brother, who are the only close relatives of his left alive. The idea that Michel died saving Arthur’s son after Arthur died saving Michel seems like something from a Shakespeare play rather than something real, I admit._

Enjolras pauses here, practically hearing his uncle’s sigh through the writing. He feels Combeferre’s hand cover his, his mother’s hand resting on his shoulder. Most of what he knew of his uncle came from the vivid, colorful stories his father told him as a boy, his brother the thing Michel missed most about leaving France behind. Uncle Remy came to Jamaica three times during Enjolras’ childhood, a lot, given the length of the journey. The only other memories he held are blurry one from when he was very small, and his uncle would swing him around in circles, his laugh similar to Michel’s, whispering French in his ear. _Neveu_ was one of the first French words Enjolras learned.

_You know, after a few years, I learned to dislike your grandfather; he made Michel anxious, and I know he treated you badly, which angered all of us here, and I know it upset your father. So I suppose that dislike has been justified tenfold in the most painful manner of all. He has not shown his face here or written us, and I don’t imagine he will. If he did, it would not be well met. It had long been my hope that I would see Michel in France again, because I missed him dearly. I hope he would retire and we’d spend our twilight years together, but that isn’t to be._

_I loved your father, but I never understood his desire for the sea. I understood he didn’t want to live in my shadow all the time. It’s hard sometimes, being the younger brother, but it was no secret that I wished he’d found his adventures closer to home. But when he came home from boarding school with Arthur in tow that first summer, I knew they’d be off together somewhere I couldn’t always follow. I remember the day he and your mother left with three-year-old you in tow. I’d come to England to see the East India ship depart. There was some kind of rebellion in his eyes that day, and I think he spent the rest of his life straddling worlds; the one we grew up in, and the one to which Arthur led. The world to which you and Frantz now belong. He made his choice, in the end. I am not certain how to feel about it, and I would be lying if I said I weren’t immensely uncomfortable at the idea of my brother as a pirate. But you said he was happy, those last months. That you were happy. That your mother was happy. And I cannot spit on that, either._

_I would plead with you to come to France, and bring your mother with you. Arthur’s mother has said she is open now, to Frantz, and I know you would not leave without him. I would plead with you to return to your family here. We have lost your father to all of this, and I would not see you or your mother lost, as well, and I fear a long life could not be in the cards. Perhaps I’m wrong, but grief colors all my thoughts, at present. But then, I know I maintain little hope of convincing you, caught up in this revolution of yours as you are. To be completely forthcoming, I don’t really even think you’re wrong in your ideas, though I can’t agree with your tactics. Slavery is barbaric, and the men tossed aside after our kings are done fighting wars is cruelty realized. But I don’t truly know if there’s anything to be done about it. You seem to think so. And so did your father, in the end. Perhaps I am a skeptical old man. Michel did always have some spark in him I did not. Perhaps I did too much to douse it without realizing._

_I miss him, and I know you do, too. I’m truly sorry you had to see him die, Rene. I cannot imagine what that must have been like for you after all your years apart._

_I will not give my approval of your unlawful actions. But to do honor to my brother’s memory I will say that if you ever need somewhere to run, my door is open. The French government wouldn’t question me over it given my position, and those damn Brits shouldn’t like to try._

_Give Astra my greetings. And Captain Javert, if he’s with you._

_With love,_

_Uncle Remy_

_Vicomte de Enjolras_

Enjolras’ hand tightens on the paper, the sound of the tavern overloud in his ears.

“Rene?” Combeferre asks.

“I’m all right,” Enjolras says. “I think I just need a bit of air.” He points down at the letter. “Apparently your grandmother is interested in meeting you.”

“Now,” Combeferre mutters, anger in his voice. “Twenty-seven years later.”

Enjolras squeezes his hand and Combeferre gets up to follow him out.

“No, stay,” Enjolras says. “Finish your drink. Could you order a glass of that wine I like for me?”

“Certainly,” Combeferre says, offering a smile.

“Already on it,” Courfeyrac says, rising and walking up toward the bar.

“From your uncle?” Enjolras hears Valjean ask from behind him as he makes his way to the door.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, showing him the signature. “He wants me to go back to France.”

Valjean doesn’t answer, but reaches around, putting a gentle hand on Enjolras’ cheek, running a thumb down the skin. Enjolras grasps Valjean’s arm then heads out, though as soon as he steps over the threshold he hears two steps of footsteps behind him, seeing his mother and Javert looking awkwardly at each other. Enjolras looks between them, both of them still silent.

“I was uh,” he tries, gesturing out toward the beach. “Going to walk for a bit. Did the two of you want to accompany me?”

“Oh I..well,” Javert says, stammering. “I’ll go back inside.”

“No need,” Astra says, waving her hand. “Don’t leave on my account.”

“You don’t mind if I walk with you?” he asks, directing his question toward Astra.

“Not at all,” Astra says, stiff but friendly still. “Rene?”

“You’re quite welcome to come,” Enjolras says, looking between them again. He’d heard some of the goings on between his mother and Javert in the weeks preceding his arrest, which explained why Javert often looked afraid of Astra; Astra was more frightening perhaps, than the most vicious battle. Enjolras pauses, feeling odd. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” Astra says, twirling some of her loose blonde hair around her finger, down far more often with Imogen’s new presence and away from the strict rules of society. “Yes let’s go.”

They walk in silence for a few minutes, Enjolras in between them with the letter clasped in his hand.

“I know that look, darling,” Astra says, putting a hand on Enjolras’ arm, the sound of her voice a comfort. “What did Remy say?”

“He gives you both his greetings,” Enjolras says, handing her the letter, watching her eyes scan over the contents. “He also pleads with me to come back to France.”

“Well I’m certain he knows that isn’t something we’ll be doing,” she says absentmindedly as she reads over the letter.

“Was he angry?” Javert asks.

“Not exactly?” Enjolras says, a question in his voice. “He was kinder than I expected. I remember him being kind from my own experience and father’s stories, of course, but given the circumstances, well. I did not expect an older French aristocrat to approve of piracy, which he didn’t. But he didn’t exactly condemn it, either.”

“He was glad your father was happy,” Javert says, a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nodding. “Glad of that. Glad I was alive.”

“He offers you safe harbor should you need it,” Astra says, looking up from the letter. “I didn’t expect that.” Enjolras watches a smile creep onto her face, melancholy. “I always did like Remy. We shared a distaste for my father.”

“Michel’s family liked him at one point, I imagine?” Javert asks, folding his hands behind his back, a sure sign of his anxiety, but he charges forward anyway.

“Michel’s parents liked my father well enough at first,” Astra says. “Enough to obviously agree to a marriage. But I’m not sure Remy or Sophie did.”

“They only liked you,” Javert says and Enjolras hears the bare hint of teasing in his voice, surprised.

“I am leagues more charming than my father,” Astra says, her smile growing, more amused now. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Hmm,” Javert says, a smirk on his face. “I should say so, yes.”

Astra stops, surveying him a moment before handing him the letter.

“Perhaps we can be friends yet, Nicholas,” Astra says, and Enjolras sees a gleam in Javert’s gray eyes.

“I should be glad of the opportunity,” Javert says, nodding at her before turning to the letter.

“I’m sorry my father got to them before your letter,” Astra says, sliding an arm around Enjolras’ waist. “That’s not how I would have had them find out.”

“No,” Enjolras murmurs, eyes going out toward the stars, Orion clear above them in the winter sky, the water liquid black beneath pinpricks of light. “I’d hoped to avoid that.”

“Are you all right?” Astra asks, the moonlight casting her face aglow.

“I think so,” Enjolras responds. “I suppose I only…well. I know how much Uncle Remy and father loved each other. And I wish he could have seen how happy father was here, in those few months. To see how happy you and I are now, with his own eyes.”

Astra nods, pulling him closer as Javert’s voice cuts into air, the breeze crisp as it blows in from the tide.

“I’m sorry I didn’t stop him,” Javert whispers, handing the letter back over to Enjolras. “Baron Travers, that is. “I should have.”

To Enjolras’ surprise, Astra stops again, letting go of him and stepping in front of Javert. She puts out her hands, determined even if they’re shaking. Javert hesitates, then takes them, his grip loose.

“You and I have had our differences,” Astra says. “And I don’t know that all the pain of that is washed away,” she continues, looking over at Enjolras, the memories of that sword to his throat vivid in her eyes. “But you could not have stopped him, Nicholas. He would have simply thrown you to the wayside and continued on with Admiral Adams. He brought you along on that final voyage so he could destroy you for daring to love Michel and Rene. For daring to reach your position when coming from your background. The power he gave you was nothing more than a ploy to see that destruction through.”

“I don’t…” Javert tries, looking unsure.

“It’s true,” Enjolras says, watching Astra grasp Javert’s hands more firmly. “We heard him say so.”

“I won’t blame him for everything I’ve done,” Javert protests. “It’s not all his doing.”

“No,” Astra says. “It isn’t. But Michel’s death lies squarely on my father.”

“I tried to kill him,” Javert insists, and Enjolras finds even after several months, Javert hasn’t let go of this. “Michel.”

“You couldn’t have,” Astra says, and Enjolras is nothing less than astonished at seeing them like this. “I believe that.”

“I’m sorry I hurt Rene, Astra,” Javert says, and Enjolras cannot remember him ever using Astra’s first time name before, the words emerging as if he’s quite forgotten Enjolras is still there.

Astra can’t quite make words come, but she nods in acceptance of the words, squeezing Javert’s hands lightly before letting go. She takes one of Enjolras’ hands instead, tucking it into the crook of her elbow.

“I think Michel would be glad to us all here together,” Astra says as they turn back in the direction of the tavern.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, his fingers curling tighter over his mother’s elbow. He looks at Javert with a tentative smile, and Javert gives one back in return, which always makes him look a bit wolfish. “I think so too. I think perhaps I’ll write Uncle Remy a reply. It’s too risky to do so very often, but I think this time it merits it.”

“I’ll help you,” Astra answers. “Though perhaps I will leave out news of my new…suitor? Old suitor? I’m not sure suitor is the right word, for a woman. But nevertheless.”

Enjolras hides a grin now, continuously pleased at the miracle that is his mother’s reunion with Imogen, a few months old but Astra walks around with no less of a delighted brightness in her eyes.

“She’s quite a firebrand,” Javert adds, a bit awkward, but to Enjolras’ shock not really disapproving of Imogen and his mother; despite all his marriage to authority, Javert never cared at all for people’s romantic entanglements, or as Enjolras once heard him call it as a boy ‘bedroom business’ even when he knew Michel had taken a mistress. “If I may so.”

“You may,” Astra says, a shy grin on her face. “You may.”

The three of them re-enter the tavern finding the fire lit despite the warmth outside, and the comforting laugh of their friends to greet them.

* * *

**Aboard the Liberte. February 1717.**

Enjolras breathes in the morning air, tasting the salt on his tongue, watching the sun rise over the ocean, orange-red light bleeding like spilled paint across the water. He stands near the bow, the ship quiet around him aside from the men on watch, the echo of five-bells from a few minutes past ringing in his head. The _Misericorde_ sails next to them, gliding along in the strange absence of any rough water.

“Morning,” says a cheerful voice from behind him, and he turns, seeing Joly.

“Good morning,” Enjolras says. “Did you ever go to bed after your watch? It’s early.”

“For a while,” Joly says, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. “But I heard one of the young boys crying, you see, so I wanted to check on him.”

Enjolras smiles at his friend, nodding. They’d set their sights on an East India ship called the _Eagle_ , which was known for shipping slaves. There hadn’t been any this time, but they’d come across several chests full of gems and expensive silks that would no doubt sell, as well as no small amount of pounds. Feuilly had noticed three young boys among the crowd of sailors, each visibly bruised, no doubt from an abusive captain. The three boys came with them without much coaxing at all, along with some of their older fellows who jumped ship.

“He was all right, I hope?” Enjolras asks.

“Just a bit scared,” Joly says. “I don’t much care for giving Laudanum to children, but he had the nastiest bruise on his ribs, one of them possibly cracked.” Joly frowns, a rare anger darkening his expression. “Bastard of a captain. Beating children. None of them are more than twelve.”

“I’m sorry he was frightened,” Enjolras says, soft. “Though I understand why.”

“He seemed to think he wasn’t allowed to be afraid,” Joly continues. “But I told him that a dear friend of mine once endured bruises at the hand of a man he should have been able to trust, and he was scared, too. But he grew up to be a rather fierce pirate captain.”

Enjolras smiles, pressing Joly’s hand.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Joly says.

“Not at all,” Enjolras says. “Actually I was going over some of the numbers with Marius, and between the _Misericorde_ and ourselves we likely have room for the three of them. We had some space before everything happened last year, and we didn’t quite finish filling out the spaces of the lost men. There’d be plenty for them to do, and they could learn. Unless they have somewhere to go?”

“No,” Joly says, shaking his head. “I don’t believe any of them do.”

“Javert was a cabin boy at that age,” Enjolras says. “After he was separated from his mother. He has some scars from a lashing he got at thirteen, but I didn’t know they were there until recently.”

Joly reaches a hand back, fingers lingering on his own old scars.

“Captains really are the luck of the draw in the navy and the merchant marine,” Joly says. “My first captain in the French navy was a good man. Kind. Just. My second one was…not.”

“Cue the arrival of Bossuet,” Enjolras says.

“Yes,” Joly says, eyes twinkling. He pauses, considering Enjolras. “Do you think he’ll ever sail with us? Javert, I mean.”

“I hope so,” Enjolras says, seeing Feuilly approaching them out of the corner of his eye. “I think he’s finally fully settling into Nassau, or as much as he can, at least, and I know he misses sailing. But I don’t know if he’s ready to directly partake in piracy. Even if he’s living on a pirate island.”

Enjolras’ eyes trail back out over the sea, watching the light skip across the waves, contemplative.

“May I ask what you’re thinking about?” Joly asks.

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “Nothing really. The ocean just makes me think, I suppose.”

“It does have that effect,” Joly answers, his tone an encouragement to continue.

“Sometimes when we’re out in the open ocean with no land in sight, I look out and find myself overwhelmed by the magnitude,” Enjolras continues. “The sea encompasses a kind of physical representation of what eternity might feel like, I think. I don’t know if humans can grasp that very well, but we sense it in the water. Maybe that’s why we’re drawn toward it.”

“Perhaps so,” Joly says, waving at Feuilly as he approaches. “You sound a bit like Prouvaire.”

“Never a bad thing, certainly,” Enjolras says.

“You’re both up early,” Feuilly says.

 “I sensed home, I suppose,” Enjolras says. “Nothing on the watch?”

“Nothing,” Feuilly says. “Clear weather, and not another ship in sight.”

“It is peaceful out,” Joly remarks, frowning as Enjolras massages at his arm. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, it’s just stiff,” Enjolras says, unworried. “It gets that way when I’m at the wheel sometimes, and I was on for a while yesterday.”

“You will let me examine it when we get home then,” Joly says. “Perhaps some more of those exercises.”

“Joly…” Enjolras tries.

“None of that,” Joly says. “You will.”

“Joly you are one of the few people who can bend the Avenging Angel to his will,” Feuilly says, daring a teasing smile. “You should advertise that.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, scowling. “You are usually my ally Feuilly, I am betrayed.”

“As our friends who usually tease you are asleep,” Feuilly says, pressing Enjolras’ shoulder. “I reserve the right to do so in their absence. Speaking of, I hate to say so, but Bossuet says we’re likely going to have to careen her when we arrive,” Feuilly says, pointing down at the ship beneath their feet.

Both Joly and Enjolras grumble over the sound of the bells marking the next half hour and ending the watch, summoning the sleeping pirates from their beds in preparation for approaching Nassau. An hour later the _Liberte_ arrives in the bay with the _Misericorde_ a few minutes behind. Enjolras piles the three young boys into the longboats himself, planning to meet Fantine and Cosette on shore as they came down from the _Misericorde_ so they might take the boys to the tavern and then to Tiena for some temporary new clothes. He steps out as the longboat hits the sand, the surf running up around his boots. When he looks up, he sees someone unexpected waiting on the shore.

Javert.

He doesn’t approach but waits instead, watching Enjolras with the three boys.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your names,” Enjolras says, gentle with his tone. “Could you tell them to me again?”

“Jacob,” the first one volunteers, looking at Enjolras in awe, and this must be the one Joly spoke to in the middle of the night. “If I may say so sir, you are good with a sword. I never saw anyone defeat our captain, before. You and Captain Valjean were amazing.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, looking behind at Javert, a thought occurring to him. “You see that man there?” he asks, pointing at Javert and then gesturing him over. “He taught me a lot of what I know. Captain Valjean also taught me a great deal.”

“They both look like they’d be good fighters” Jacob says, sizing up Javert as he approaches.

“What’s this?” Javert asks, looking awkward.

“This is Jacob,” Enjolras says. “And…” he says, looking to the other boys.

“Peter,” one says.

“Liam,” says the other.

“This is…” Enjolras pauses, unsure how to refer to Javert. “My friend. Nicholas.”

The three boys nod shyly at him before Jacob turns back to Enjolras, inquisitive. Javert’s eyes trail over the boy, spotting the visible bruises.

“Sir,” Jacob asks.

“You may call me Rene,” Enjolras says.

“Rene,” Jacob amends. “What’s to be done with us?”

“If you like there is space for you on our crews,” Valjean says, coming up behind them, his dreadlocks tied up against the heat of the day. “Otherwise we will find a way for you to get where you’d like to be. But we’re in need of some cabin boys, you see. Our very own Gavroche would likely be in charge of your training.”

Jacob’s eyes go wide, enthused.

“May I be on Rene’s crew?” Jacob asks.

“Certainly,” Valjean says, his voice holding that warm, comforting quality like a blanket on a chilly night. “How would the two of you like to join me on my ship?” Valjean asks the other two.

They nod their assent, and few minutes later Fantine and Cosette sweep them toward the tavern for some proper food as Valjean and Enjolras finish managing the unloading.

“Where did you find them?” Javert asks stepping into the longboat with Enjolras.

“On an East Indiaman we were hunting,” Enjolras says, perplexed. “Are you…coming with me to the ship?”

“I thought that was obvious,” Javert says, a slight grumble in his voice. “I was coming to help you finish unloading.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says. “All right.”

“So you took an East Indiaman?” Javert asks, helping Enjolras row back to where the ship’s anchored in the bay. “And those boys just…came with you?”

“Their captain was beating them,” Enjolras says darkly, watching as the men lower the chests of silks into the longboats. “Some of the sailors jumped ship also.”

“Oh,” Javert says. He pauses, then continues. “The papers say trade is slower than ever, in the Caribbean and up toward the American colonies,” he says. “Because of pirates.”

“It is quite stifled,” Enjolras says. “But it was their mistake for not taking us seriously in the first place.”

They’re quiet for moment as they climb back up onto deck, and Javert waits patiently while Enjolras speaks to Courfeyrac and Marius, seeing to the last chests.

“All right, Javert?” Prouvaire asks, having removed his coat, shirtsleeves rolled up as he carries the last chest down with Grantaire’s help.

“Quite well,” Javert says, surprised by this question.

“Did anything interesting happen while we were gone?” Prouvaire asks.

“Enough chat Jehan,” Grantaire grumbles. “We can just as well find that out on land.”

Prouvaire rolls his eyes fondly at Grantaire before waving at Enjolras and Javert with a merry smile, leaving them largely alone on the deck.

“What did you take from the ship?” Javert asks, far more casually than Enjolras would have thought.

“Several chests of silks,” Enjolras tells him. “Some gems and pounds we found in the captain’s cabin.” He pauses, then plunges forward, distracted. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?”

“No,” Javert says, too quickly.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve been gone nearly two months,” Javert says, giving in. “And Valjean said you were aiming to be back around now, and I just thought…” he trails off, embarrassed.

“It’s not a criticism,” Enjolras says, sighing. Everything with Javert is more difficult than with others, but though they argue, there’s no doubt their relationship has improved in the year or so since Javert arrived. “Were you worried?”

“I…” Javert tries. “Well. You have Valjean and your own mother to worry over you, I’m sure you don’t…” Enjolras watches as Javert’s fingers run over the old East India Ring, the insignia nearly rubbed off now. He studies Javert, seeing his hair grown as long as it was when Enjolras first met him, a bit more stubble left on his face than the officer ever would have allowed.

“You’re allowed to worry about me, Javert,” Enjolras says. “I’m not insulted by it. I’m sure my father would have worried too, were he still here.”

This lifts Javert’s frown and he hesitates before speaking again, sounding marginally less embarrassed.

“Would you…my mother was cooking tonight and I thought perhaps you could join us. Perhaps bring Frantz and your mother and Imogen with you. And Auden if you insist upon it.”

“I’m sure Courfeyrac would be so flattered,” Enjolras says, dry.

“Don’t tease me Rene,” Javert says, sharper now. “I asked Valjean and he just answered me straight, can you not do that?”

“I can’t help but tease you just a little, Javert,” Enjolras says, but he does reach out, clasping Javert’s arm. “But I accept the invitation.”

Javert nods, eyes scanning the ship, deciding something.

“You’re doing good here,” Javert says, half a mumble. “Rescuing those boys was…kind.”

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“You heard me Rene,” Javert grouses. “I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, serious now. “You know, I could speak to the crew if you were interested in sailing with us.”

_My father did_ is what he doesn’t say.

Javert’s eyes go wide, surprised at the first real direct offer of such a thing, but there’s doubt in his eyes, still.

“Perhaps one day,” Javert says, finger running over the East India ring again. “I’ve been quite busy helping my mother and with the ship repairs. But thank you.”

Enjolras doesn’t press him, and they climb back down into the longboat, both lost in their own thoughts as they row the short distance back to shore.

“Rene?” Javert asks as they climb out. “I should like to hear of your voyage over dinner. If you don’t mind.”

“No,” Enjolras says, fingers touching the hilt of his father’s sword, still hanging from his belt, a burst of something bittersweet pushing upward and sliding a small smile onto his face. “I wouldn’t mind at all.”

* * *

**Nassau. May 1717.**

Enjolras narrows his eyes when he hears Charles Vane say his name from behind.

“Captain Enjolras,” Vane says, a hint of sarcasm on his tongue. “A word, if you please?”

“What for?” Enjolras, the brusqueness making both his mother and Imogen raise their eyebrows from where they sit across the table. Enjolras doesn’t care for Vane’s tactics and only talks to him when he must. He prefers talking to Jack Rackham and Anne Bonny than he does Vane himself; Rackham in particular is much easier to speak with. Bahorel had come to blows with some of Vane’s crew before, and though the peace was kept, there was some tension remaining.

“I have news that Teach just passed onto me,” Vane says. “He would have come himself, but he had to go tell Hornigold. You were the first of your lot I’ve come across.”

“All right,” Enjolras says. “I’ll be right back,” he tells his mother and Imogen, watching Fantine join them as he walks out the door, tilting her head curiously.

Anxiety beats an off-key tune in his chest, his heart thumping harder than normal at the uncharacteristic anxious look on Vane’s face.

“I assume this can’t be good news?” Enjolras asks, less short than before. “What’s the matter?”

“Sam Bellamy is dead,” Vane says, to the point.

Enjolras feels a hot rage immediately explode in the pit of his stomach, colliding messily with a burst of grief.

“Don’t go enacting plans for revenge already,” Vane says, noting his expression.

“Odd advice coming from you,” Enjolras quips.

“You’d have to take your complaints to the ocean herself,” Vane says. “It was a nor’easter, apparently. The _Whydah_ ended up on the rocks. There were only two survivors, and Bellamy wasn’t among them.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says, feeling the rage recede, replaced with the familiar ache of loss. A sad smile pulls at his lips when he remembers Bellamy tying that familiar black ribbon around his long queue, always tidy.

“He was too soft for my tastes,” Vane says, begrudging respect in his voice. “Like you and Valjean.”

“Vane…” Enjolras tries cutting in.

“But a good pirate, like you are,” Vane says, talking over him. “I know he was a particular friend of yours, and that he looked up to Valjean.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, eyes darting out to the ocean beyond. The first anniversary of his father’s death passed not long ago, and this piling on left him with the sensation of feeling slightly ill. “Thank you for telling me.”

“The ocean gives,” Vane says, gruff, but there’s emotion in his eyes; losing one of their own, and one so well-liked, was a shared grief, no matter the tensions between various crews. “But sometimes she takes, too.”

Enjolras nods, thanking him again, going back into the tavern.

“Why were you talking to Charles Vane?” Fantine asks immediately; Valjean’s joined the table where Astra and Imogen sit, looking at him with worried eyes. “Not that we musn’t talk to him sometimes, but that man on his crew did give Bahorel that nasty bruise, before, though I think he was more proud than bothered.”

“Sam Bellamy is dead,” Enjolras says as he sits down, hearing his voice waver.

“What?” Fantine says, looking quite ready to wage war. “Who…”

“A shipwreck,” Enjolras says. “They got caught in a bad storm, hit the rocks. Only two men survived.”

“He was a good man,” Valjean says, folding his hands together atop the table, and Fantine puts a much smaller one over them. “And a good friend to us.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, feeling his mother’s hand reach out for his own. He doesn’t miss the haunted look in her eyes; Bellamy was very near his own age. “He was our friend when it might have just as easily gotten him killed.”

“He helped us when Robins was arrested,” Fantine recalls, melancholy. “And during that final battle with Admiral Adams. I’ll never forget seeing those sails of his on the horizon.”

“He was very friendly when I arrived here,” Astra adds, gaze darting as Imogen gets up abruptly, walking toward the bar. “I’m so sorry, all of you. I didn’t know him long, but I know he was a valued friend.”

Imogen returns a few minutes later, having enlisted the barkeep to help her bring the drinks back to the table; Imogen, Enjolras had learned, was capable of charming and talking to nearly anyone. She places a glass of the sweet red wine they both prefer in front of Astra and Enjolras.

“You remembered I liked this?” he asks, feeling a warmth fill some of that ill feeling in his chest as Imogen puts a comforting hand on his back.

“You are very like your mother sometimes, my darling boy,” she says, winking at him. “I also pay attention. Besides I also recalled that Fantine and I have _infinitely_ better taste in wine,” she continues, placing a glass of drier white wine in front of Fantine and herself.

“Oh,” Astra says, flicking Imogen in the arm as she sits back down next to her. “My taste in wine is _fine_.”

“Your taste in wine is dreadful,” Imogen argues. “Your taste in women however, I can entirely vouch for.”

“You are determined to make me blush,” Astra says, pleased, cheeks turning pink.

“A bit,” Imogen says, sliding down a glass of dark beer toward Valjean, who catches it, nodding his appreciation.

“She is right about the wine though,” Fantine says, smiling at Astra. “Sorry, my friend.”

“To Sam Bellamy,” Valjean says, raising his glass up. “A true friend to us in times we most needed it.”

The glasses clink together as some of their friends enter the tavern, the news on their lips.

Two days later, most of Nassau holds a wake of sorts for Sam Bellamy on the beach. Enjolras sits in a circle with his friends near one of the fires, which is freshly lit and casting an orange glow against the dusky, navy blue sky, gray running down around the edges. The fire crackles as it devours the wood, the flame growing higher as some men toss on more timber.

“Good lord,” Bahorel says, eyes scanning the crowd. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this many pirates in a space before.”

“Do not pick a fight with Vane or his crew when you have too much wine,” Prouvaire says, jabbing Bahorel in the upper arm.

“Ow,” Bahorel says, complaining. “Don’t pretend as though you do not like a good fight now and again, Jehan.”

“Only when it’s deserved,” Prouvaire protests.

“Well I’d say he deserves it,” Bahorel answers. “For how rude he is most of the time.”

“Perhaps,” Prouvaire says. “But he has not bothered us, and he was good enough to come tell Enjolras the news, and Bellamy wouldn’t like it, I imagine.”

“All right, all right,” Bahorel says, clapping Prouvaire on the shoulder. “I’ll heed you. All I’m saying is this many pirates in one spot, there’s bound to be at least a punch thrown, at some point.”

“Don’t look now,” Bossuet says. “But your shadow’s approaching, Enjolras.”

Enjolras turns around, seeing Javert approaching them, and Enjolras finds he’s still always surprised at seeing Javert in the plain black coat he wears now, much simpler than either his East India or naval uniforms and devoid of medals or elaborate buttons.

“Ah,” Grantaire says. “Perhaps we will be the reason for the punching then. And so early, too.”

“Bellamy might not be so surprised by that,” Feuilly says, and Combeferre nods from next to him.

Enjolras sucks in a breath; most of Nassau had come to uneasy terms with Javert’s presence here, and he’d picked up doing repair work on the ships of more than just their particular allies. But there were still angry glances sent Javert’s way regularly, still questions of _what were Enjolras and Valjean thinking bringing that man here._ When Javert wasn’t working on the ships, he was usually tending his mother’s garden or talking walks at night on the more isolated stretch of beach; he rarely ventured into town. Enjolras sometimes lured him out, but it was rare. He spent most of time with Javert ensconced in Tiena’s house drinking coffee at her tiny kitchen table.

“This is quite the gathering,” Javert says, stepping awkwardly up to them. “I’m surprised you can’t hear the noise on the other side of the island.”

“Well,” Gavroche says. “They did continue sharing an island that was half taken up by pirates, so I suppose they’re used to it by now.”

“You may sit if you like, Javert,” Cosette says patting the space between her and Enjolras, who scoots over to allow room. She looks around the circle at hearing a mutter from Courfeyrac and Bahorel, daring them to challenge her.

“Cosette, are you quite sure?” Marius whispers, just audible enough for Enjolras to hear.

“Yes quite sure Marius thank you,” Cosette says, in a tone that indicates she won’t be argued with.

Javert settles in between Cosette and Enjolras, looking around, a pained expression against the fallen silence.

“Wine, Javert?” Joly asks, voice going high at the end in his nerves.

“Oh,” Javert says. “Yes, thank you.”

Cosette makes a comment, laughing in delight as she watches Fantine, Astra, Imogen, and Chantal pull Tiena out, engaging her in the dancing; the silence breaks, a trail of chatter following in its wake.

“My mother looks as though she’s enjoying herself,” Javert says, and Enjolras catches him smiling as Chantal takes both of Tiena’s hands, pulling her forward. The starlight runs down Tiena’s black hair, turning the gray strands silver, and Enjolras sees Javert touch his own long locks.

“She usually does, when around the others,” Enjolras answers. “They make a good group, and they all have a lot in common.”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” Javert says, eyes roving over the crowd before landing on Bahorel, who rises from his place in the circle to sneak up behind Fantine, spinning her around and lifting her up the air, earning a peal of surprised, delighted laughter.

“I’m sorry about Bellamy,” Javert says, gruff but sincere. “I know he was a friend of yours.”

“He was a good man,” Enjolras says, releasing a sigh, seeing Valjean approaching them out of the corner of his eye. Cosette slides over so he can sit between herself and Javert. “But thank you.”

“Good to see you here, Javert,” Valjean says, settling in his seat. “A bit more social than our card games.”

“Yes, well,” Javert says, clearing his throat. “I thought I ought to come. As long as it’s all right. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“No trouble,” Valjean says, clasping Javert’s shoulder.

Feuilly leaves his place in the circle, coming over with a drink for Valjean, who accepts it, grateful.

“Fantine was saying she going to come over here and make you dance,” Valjean says, winking at him before chuckling at the half-pleased scowl on his nephew’s face.

“I’m a frightful dancer,” Feuilly protests. “She should make _you_ dance, instead.”

“You are not frightful, Jahni,” Cosette says, leaning over. “Though Papa I’m afraid you are, a bit.”

“Cosette,” Marius says.

“Oh it’s all right Marius,” Valjean says, laughing again. “It’s only true.”

“Perhaps you should dance, Javert,” Enjolras suggests, wry.

“Do not even think about it, Rene,” Javert says, glaring at him. “Or give anyone ideas.”

“I seem to remember you being a fair dancer, Javert,” Courfeyrac says from Enjolras’ other side. “From seeing you at parties.”

“Auden,” Javert warns.

“He’s only telling the truth,” Combeferre adds, piling on. “My father and Michel gave you lessons, I haven’t forgotten.”

“They were far better dancers than their student, I fear,” Javert mutters. “Besides, that was proper dancing. This is…something else.”

“More _creative_ dancing,” Prouvaire says.

“On the part of some,” Bossuet says, jabbing his thumb at Grantaire, who whacks him away. “Don’t you dare say you aren’t a good dancer, Grantaire.”

“Credible, perhaps,” Grantaire answers, causing Joly to elbow him in the side.

“Anyway,” Bossuet says over the sounds of their bickering. “It is more creative on the part of some. I alas, am not one of those people. Nor is Joly.”

“You give yourself so little credit, Bossuet,” Enjolras says, smiling at him. “I think Musichetta might object.”

“She doesn’t,” Joly says. “That’s why she’s joined the ladies over there.”

Laughter runs around the circle, and Enjolras hears even Javert release a chortle, though it sounds a bit like a barking dog. Enjolras observes Javert’s face in the firelight as the raucous crowd falls quiet when Teach stands up, raising his glass, saying a few words about Sam Bellamy in his capacity as a magistrate of sorts, while Ben Hornigold waits beside him. Javert looks better than he has in the past year, his face less haggard and his eyes less dull, though a tension rests in his frame; Enjolras still blinks, sometimes, when he sees Javert approaching him, the situation never quite settling in, even if he’s glad of the reality.

“Javert?” he whispers, raising his glass as Teach and the entire company raise theirs in unison.

“Hmm?” Javert asks, tentatively raising his own glass.

“Thank you for coming,” Enjolras continues. “It means a lot.”

“Oh,” Javert says. “Well, you’re welcome.” A smile plays at his lips, and he pats Enjolras’ arm.

“To Sam Bellamy!” Teach’s voice roars out, deep and projecting across the crowd.

“To Sam Bellamy!” the crowd calls back, and despite any personal arguments, Enjolras feels his heart swell at the sound of hundreds of pirates gathered together, honoring the same man, and paying tribute to the ideas that brought them to Nassau in the first place.

* * *

**Nassau. October 1717.**

Combeferre can’t sleep.

He sits up in bed, some unknown thing nagging at his mind. Light from the full moon pours into the dark room through the window, casting Enjolras’ bed in an eerie silver glow. Enjolras glances over as Combeferre sits up, looking solemn.

“Can’t sleep either?” Combeferre asks.

“I was thinking,” Enjolras says, hugging his blanket covered knees to his chest, wavy blond curls hanging loose down his back, almost white in the moonlight rather than the usual gold. “We could take a walk?”

A groan emerges from the pile of blankets that is Courfeyrac.

“Or you could sleep,” he says, voice hoarse, a mane of brown curls popping up from among the bedcovers. “Why won’t you sleep?”

“Specifically to annoy you,” Combeferre says, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his spectacles. “My but you sleep lightly for a sailor, waking up at the sound of talking.”

“I’m used to the noises of the ship,” Courfeyrac protests, sliding further out from under the covers. “Not your late night chatter.”

“You share a sleeping space with us on the ship just as much as you do on the island,” Enjolras says, a teasing in his voice. “Pray, what is the difference?”

“Are we going for a walk or not?” Courfeyrac complains, sitting up now, bleary-eyed.

 “Yes,” Enjolras says, rising from the bed and searching for his coat.

“Are we going in our nightshirts?” Combeferre questions.

“If anyone bothers us about it I’ll challenge them to a duel,” Courfeyrac says, stretching his arms over his head with a pronounced yawn.

“Half-asleep?” Combeferre asks.

“I could beat most of them full asleep,” Courfeyrac says.

“Quite,” Enjolras says, fond.

The three of them pad down the stairs, stepping over the creaky floorboard at the bottom so they might avoid waking their sleeping friends. There’s a hush in the air around town as they walk through toward the beach, a strange difference from the normal raucous noise coming from the taverns even at this hour on a normal night; more crews must be out sailing. It’s dark, thick clouds colored gray against the black sky, blocking most of the starlight and parts of the full moon, a solitary slice shining down and lighting their way. But Combeferre knows the sound of the ocean as well as his own breath, and it draws them in the right direction. It’s a tad cooler than normal with the breeze, and Combeferre pulls his coat tighter around him. The three of them sit down just out of the water’s reach, Enjolras in the middle. Combeferre looks at Enjolras, thinking there’s something on his mind; he can tell by the way his friend’s eyebrows furrow and how his eyes narrow in thought, holding a bright glint of contemplation.

“Do either of you ever think about losing Nassau?” Enjolras asks, eyes looking out toward the ocean, the sky above barely distinguishable and melting into the water.

“As in the British taking the island back?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, half lost in his mind. “Or perhaps another colonial power making designs on it. Spain. France. It’s certainly changed hands before.”

“Why is this on your mind?” Combeferre asks.

“Rumors I’ve heard,” Enjolras answers. “People saying that we’ve done such a job of halting their shipping that they haven’t much to lose by trying to attack us here. Before they were afraid they’d lose more than it was worth. Now, well. We’re in their way enough to make it worth the gamble, perhaps. Certainly a victory of course, it just lessens their risk if they’ve less to lose.”

“We would all be upset to lose the island,” Courfeyrac says. “And rightly so. But it wouldn’t mean the end of what we do. Plenty of pirates don’t make their home here, even if many choose to.”

“It wouldn’t be the end of piracy,” Combeferre says, sensing the question without Enjolras asking. “You don’t think so, do you?” Combeferre asks, thinking that doesn’t sound like Enjolras.

“No not all,” Enjolras says. “This island is a home, and a treasured one. But pirates have lost those before. Tortuga comes to mind. No, I was wondering what we would do, if Nassau was threatened. Do we fight for her? Or do we escape and continue on the larger war?”

“I’m not sure we could decide that until the time came,” Courfeyrac answers. “It would depend on the force that arrived.”

“Or what others on the island thought,” Combeferre adds. “I love this place. We grew up here, really. But I think if we let it be the focus of what we do, then maybe we’ve lost sight. Even if it does make things easier.”

“You are wiser than you realize, as usual,” Enjolras says, smiling at him and taking one of his hands, his other reaching over for Courfeyrac. “I was just musing, I suppose. I heard some men discussing a new round they’d heard rumors of, and places like Madagascar. I cannot help but think forward.”

“Hmm,” Courfeyrac muses, a sleepy grin sliding onto his face. “Even the name sounds a bit like an adventure.”

Enjolras smiles at him then lays back on the sand, closing his eyes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac follow suit, their sides pressing against Enjolras’.

“I don’t know what the future is,” Combeferre says, reaching over and brushing a stray hair off Enjolras’ forehead, feeling a rush of affection flood through him. “But I say we treasure the island while we have her.”

“Hear hear,” Coufeyrac says, closing his eyes as well.

“Wherever the future lays, whether on Nassau or not, I believe the dawn exists in us remaining together, remaining dedicated to what we do,” Enjolras says, and Combeferre smiles at the half-asleep eloquence his friend musters. “This is a bit like our first night, isn’t it? Falling asleep on the beach in Nassau?”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, finally closing his eyes and feeling Enjolras reach for his hand again, clasping it tight. He remembers those nights on the run, remembers the fear and the uncertainty. But he also remembers how through all of it, Enjolras and Courfeyrac lent a feeling of safety. “I do suppose it is.”

Combeferre looks back out at the ocean again; he loves the sea, but nights like this always leave him in awe of its power. You could barely see a thing without the stars, though even on the brightest nights the pinpricks of light can’t penetrate the black liquid beneath, the ocean floor a mystery even to the most experienced sailor. They’d grown up on Nassau. They’d built their found family here. But that family wouldn’t end even if the island did, he felt certain of that.

A few minutes later, the ocean humming in his ears, Combeferre falls asleep.

* * *

**Nassau. February 1718.**

Enjolras is having coffee with Javert when Tiena comes in the door, looking grave, lines of apprehension in her face.

“What’s the matter?” Javert asks automatically, but her eyes go straight to Enjolras, a newspaper clutched in her hand.

“There’s some news,” she answers, handing the paper to Enjolras, anxious at the look on her face. “Valjean and Fantine ask you come to the house promptly to discuss it.”

Enjolras’ scans over the headline, eyes widening.

_King George offers pirates a pardon._

“Rene?” Javert asks, but Enjolras holds up a hand, reading over the beginning of the article.

_King George I of England has issued a royal proclamation of pardon for any pirate who swears to give up his evil deeds and re-enter society as an honest man. Any pirate who does not will see the full power of the crown…_

Enjolras doesn’t read further, feeling a blast of hot anger shoot through him, smacking the paper on the wood.

“Would one of you kindly tell me what is happening?” Javert asks, a bite of impatience in his voice.

“King George is offering the pirates a pardon,” Enjolras says, standing up abruptly. He looks at Tiena, apologetic. “I’m sorry for my temper, Tiena, I have to go home immediately.”

“Quite all right dear,” Tiena says, pressing his shoulder. “I’ll likely be there soon as well. Valjean was saying there may be a gathering of the captains this evening with Teach to discuss it. Vane and Rackham just arrived back with the news, so it’s still being spread.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, before nodding and heading out the door, hearing Javert mutter something to his mother before dashing out after him.

“Rene, wait,” Javert says, a touch of Michel in his voice.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” Enjolras says, glancing back behind him but still keeping his pace.

“Rene,” Javert protests. “Just stop a moment for god’s sake.”

“Just a moment,” Enjolras says, short. “I need to get home.”

“Well I’m glad you can _bother_ ,” Javert says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Javert, what?” Enjolras asks.

“I’m trying to understand why you’re so angry about these pardons,” Javert says. “That you’re storming off like this.”

“The king _deigns_ to show us mercy without actually offering us any concessions or any sort of place at the table,” Enjolras says, turning fully around now. “It’s insulting and useless. And, no doubt, a ploy.”

“So you don’t find any merit in them?” Javert asks.

“No,” Enjolras says, slow, his irritation building. “I don’t.”

“You wouldn’t have to be a fugitive anymore,” Javert says, a strange desperation in his tone. “You could be free.”

“I _am_ free,” Enjolras says, emphasis landing on the second word, Javert’s words a swift swing to his stomach.

“But you are not free from being chased,” Javert insists.

“I accepted that a long time ago,” Enjolras says, stepping closer now.

“So you will not even consider it?” Javert says, suddenly sharp.

Enjolras stares at him, feeling his breath hitch in his chest; it’s the first time in a long while they’ve truly fought. Small arguments and bickering were inevitable given everything they’ve been through, but the glint in Javert’s eyes holds something fiercer.

“No,” Enjolras says, voice hard. “I will not. And neither will anyone on either the _Misericorde_ or the _Liberte_.”

“Presumptuous,” Javert says, clearly annoyed, but there’s something unsettled growing in his expression. “You haven’t even spoken with Valjean or Fantine, let alone your friends or other captains on the island.”

“I know them better than you do,” Enjolras says, harshness flooding his voice, and Javert flinches at the searing glint in his eyes. “So I’m quite certain you’re wrong.”

“God you are you determined to march right to the noose, aren’t you?” Javert says, voice rising. “Determined to meet some bloody end no matter what. Determined to be a martyr.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes, then turns his back to Javert, starting to walk away again. Javert steps up behind him, one hand reaching out and loosely seizing his wrist, tugging him back.

“You aren’t _listening_ ,” Javert insists as Enjolras pulls out of the grasp immediately, a shock jolting through him.

“Let _go_ of me,” Enjolras snaps, an echo of the day on the deck after he was shot.

“ _Dammit_ Rene, I’m afraid you’ll die!” Javert shouts, voice launching through the air and banging against the trees, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Javert’s voice lingers, echoing before it dies off. Enjolras stares at him and Javert stares back, fallen quiet. Enjolras steps forward again, putting a light hand on Javert’s arm. Javert mimics the gesture, one hand touching Enjolras’ forearm near his elbow, fingers curling gently around. Enjolras closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. Javert looks at him, vulnerability written in every line of his face, grief breaking through the stone.

“I know you are,” Enjolras says, touched by the open admission of affection if annoyed by the delivery. “But Javert, you’re going to have to accept that fear as a part of knowing me again. I’m sorry. I won’t give up my soul to power out of fear.”

“Have you ever thought you’re just afraid of letting this revolution go?” Javert asks. “That you’re afraid you don’t know who you are without it? I hunted pirates not so long ago, Rene. I know how determined the powers that be are to crush men like you. And I’d rather not see that happen.”

 “This revolution is who I am,” Enjolras says, a bubble of sadness building up in his chest. “I had thought…I felt you were beginning to believe in it, too, instead of living in the limbo between worlds. And your decision about that may be coming quicker than you wish. One day you’re going to have to choose to be a pirate or not. You can’t be a bystander forever.”

“Your father…” Javert tries.

“I am not my father,” Enjolras says, interrupting him. “Striking as some of the similarities are. But I don’t think the man he was when he died would have taken the pardon, either.” He stops, surveying Javert, hating the pain in the other man’s eyes, but feeling the pull of necessity calling him toward home. He cannot make Javert’s decisions for him, but one day, Enjolras hopes, Javert will set foot on the deck of the _Liberte_ and sail with them, taking those final steps to walk toward Michel’s dying wishes. “I have to go,” he continues. “Thank you for the coffee.”

Javert nods but doesn’t say anything more, his fingers pressing Enjolras’ forearm before he lets go. Enjolras takes his leave, reaching back and re-tying his hair as he walks, brushing a particularly pesky piece behind his ear when it won’t stay in the queue. He cuts through part of Nassau town to get home, the tension palpable and apparent around him, the breeze thick with heat.

That they could lose Nassau he always understood, and it would be a blow; the island had been a place pirates could call home for years, but it was not tied to the existence of piracy itself. The offer showed the king’s fear of them for certain, showed that their near-halting of shipping in the region was even more monumental than they realized, but there was no concession on the king’s part, no offer of a compromise or a promise of making things better. There was no mention of a strategy for ending the slave trade, no dedication to stopping impressment, no offer of a place at the table to discuss any issue faced by the people on this island.  No, this was an attempted blow at piracy more broadly.

It was, Enjolras thinks, an attempt to turn pirates against one another. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself, perhaps it was not so dire. The causes they fought for would not waver, and nor would many men and women’s dedication to them. But some of the less dedicated were a less certain commodity. Javert’s thoughts made rational sense, perhaps, even if it was born out of fear. It was man’s instinct to survive, and Enjolras certainly didn’t have a desire to die, quite the opposite, but he would not throw away his ideals, he would not throw away all the work they’d done because he might face death as a consequence. That, he thinks, would be more the end of him than physical death. Javert might call it obsession, but maybe it took a pinch of defiant madness in the soul that to keep resisting the demands of society. Perhaps that was what it took to make them listen.

But he would not bow. Not today, and not ever.

He knew they could succeed, that humanity could do better, even if he didn’t live to see all the fruits of their labors. He already saw the miracles of human compassion every day in the people he knew, and the work they did. So many people he knew were once slaves. So many of them were victims of impressment, were treated ill by merchant captains or even some naval captains. Too many were poor and barely surviving before they found piracy. He could never betray his friends, his _family_ like by taking such a pardon. Even if he ever held the slightest desire to take his uncle up on the offer of coming to France, he holds no doubts his grandfather would come knocking at the door; that freedom would be little more than a façade, stuck in a hiding place. He will not dash off somewhere to a fine house where the people who sail under the black with him cannot follow. He will not take his mother to a place where she would not be allowed to stay with the woman she loved.

Part of him understands Javert’s desire for him to take the pardon; Javert wanted to protect him, Javert wanted to follow in Michel’s footsteps, but Enjolras thinks to truly do that, Javert must set foot on the _Liberte_ as it sails away, partaking in their work rather than observing from the relative safety of the island. He would put Javert’s fears at ease, but in the midst of his tumbling thoughts, he’s not sure how. Or even if he should. Javert would have to cross the chasm, one day. He was so close, and yet he couldn’t take those final steps. Enjolras spots Courfeyrac as he approaches the house, watching his friend pace back and forth in front of the door.

 “There’s some rumors that Hornigold and Jennings are actually considering _accepting_ ,” Courfeyrac says, smacking his fist against the door then wincing, shaking it in pain. “Bastards. I can’t believe it.”

“Well we don’t know for sure yet,” Enjolras says, putting a calming hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Any word of anyone else?”

“Not everyone,” Courfeyrac says. “Teach and Vane are solidly against though, from what I’ve heard. Combeferre thinks it might be a sign they’ll send a governor to attempt to re-take the island.”

“Let’s get inside,” Enjolras says.

Enjolras spots everyone gathered around the main sitting room, the room abuzz with nervous chatter. He approaches Fantine and Valjean, who stand together, heads bowed in conversation, Captain Robins standing nearby, talking with Feuilly and Cosette.

“Tiena showed me the paper,” Enjolras says without ceremony. “What do you think this means?” he asks, watching Fantine bite her lip.

“I think we’ve scared them,” she says. “We’ve put the profits of their trade in real danger. But they’re trying to strike back at us. A fairly clever plan, I hate to admit.”

“Trying to turn us against one another,” Enjolras says. “I was thinking the same. Those who take the pardons and those who don’t. Piracy is stronger than this island. But they know the blow it would be to take it.”

“A job made easier if some take the pardon,” Fantine adds. “They also might send those who accept after those who don’t. I’m not certain, but it sounds feasible.”

“I don’t suppose any of our crews are considering accepting?” Enjolras asks, looking at Valjean, who has a particular determination in his expression.

“No,” Valjean says, absentmindedly putting a hand over Enjolras’, looking around the room, a protective anger in his eyes. “They are not.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Only one chapter left to go, can you believe it?? I can't. 
> 
> But, in that vein, some announcements. One, I have put a lot of thought into this, and I am considering doing a continuation in this verse. I'm not entirely sure what form this will take (I'm not sure whether it will be a full sequel, or a series taking place after the events of the last chapter, a bit like the Deleted Scenes one I have going, which I intend to work on as well, but more in order) but we shall see! I feel strongly there is more story to tell in this fic verse, so we will see how it takes shape!
> 
> Two, some of you have asked before if I've considered editing this up and turning it into a regular book, and I definitely have. Once it's done, I am going to try my hand at doing just that, so we will see! Don't worry though it's not going anywhere right now or anything, this will be a long process and there's no guarantee anyone would take an interest but I thought there might be no harm in trying!
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who has stuck with me through this fic, you are wonderful!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and that you will enjoy the last one, which should be up in a few weeks! :D


	36. Book III (Swirling Up from the Sea): Part 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things end as they began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well friends! Here we are. I can scarcely believe it, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tearing up writing this. I am proud of this fic, and this story has become more important to me than I ever could have known when I woke up from the dream I had that inspired it.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with me throughout the journey of this fic, and to everyone who has left me such incredible, encouraging comments. This is a long one, but I didn't want to break it up since I promised this would be the last. I really, really hope you all enjoy this last chapter, and that it does the story justice. I've compiled a Youtube playlist for you to listen to as you read along, if you like: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLP7VcCNMN0vLAt0S--IJEiujP1XtZd5rU
> 
> I dunno if AO3 will link that properly, but hopefully you can copy/paste the link. Just in case, here are the songs:
> 
> How Does a Moment Last Forever / Beauty and the Beast 2017  
> Wooden Toy Sword / Heather Alexander  
> One Day / Pirates of the Caribbean at World's End OST  
> Mystery / Indigo Girls  
> A Nation of Thieves / Black Sails OST  
> The Andromache / Black Sails OST  
> Plough and Orion / Skinny Lister  
> Hoist the Colors / Pirates of the Caribbean at World's End OST  
> Little Lights / The Punch Brothers  
> He's a Pirate / Pirates of the Caribbean the Curse of the Black Pearl OST  
> Black Sails Main Title / Black Sails OST  
> Dante's Prayer / Loreena McKennit  
> Song of Orion / Rosie Soul  
> Song of the Sea (Lullaby) / Song of the Sea OST  
> We Know the Way (finale) / Moana OST

**Book III (Swirling Up From the Sea): Part 20**

_"The stars swam across the night sky with his loss_  
_And his father appeared in that sea_  
_And the drum of his heart nearly broke him apart_  
_As he fell to the ground on one knee_  
  
_For he'd come to wait for his Da at the gate_  
_With a broken toy sword in his hand_  
_From beyond death he'll come with the beat of love's drum_  
_To honour his son and his land."_

_~Wooden Toy Sword, Heather Alexander_

_"The Empire survives in part because we believe its survival to be inevitable. It isn’t. And they know that. That’s why they’re so terrified of you and I. If we are able to take Nassau, if we are able to expose the illusion that England is not inevitable. If we are able to incite a revolt that spreads across the New World…then yeah, I imagine people are going to notice."_

_~Black Sails_

**Nassau. March 1718.**

“Dammit, Ben!”

Javert winces as Edward Teach’s voice explodes out from behind the closed door of the private room in the corner of the tavern. Valjean and Javert sit nearby, regarding the closed door with widened eyes, anxious as the shouting bangs against the wood.

“I’m only saying,” Hornigold says, his voice calmer and more calculating. “Consider the options. Take the pardon, or a very high probability of death. I know which one I prefer.”

“I don’t suppose pirates operate under the fiction that you don’t hear what goes on behind closed doors?” Javert asks, dry. “First thing I learned working for East India. Even more in the navy.”

“Oh, we do, on shipboard,” Valjean answers, awkward. “We try, anyway. I don’t know if the rules apply on land. Or in this situation.”

“I’m _tired_ of you operating under the assumption those are the only choices we have,” Teach growls. “We also have the choice to fight for the island. We have the choice to leave the island and continue our work or even take our base to another island. But you’ve always been a coward, so I should expect differently.”

“A coward?” Hornigold says, voice iced over.

“Deposed off your own ship and left by the men you mentored because you wouldn’t go after English ships,” Teach says. “You never could dedicate yourself to piracy. An opportunist privateer, no matter the cost or the betrayal to your fellows.”

Ten seconds later the door bursts open, banging back against the wall and Hornigold emerges, eyes catching on Valjean as Teach comes out just behind him.

“See here Hornigold?” Teach says, pointing at Valjean. “Behold a man who isn’t a coward. You aren’t taking the pardon, are you my good man?”

“No I am not, Captain Teach,” Valjean says, seeing the simmering anger in Teach’s black eyes.

“And Enjolras either,” Teach continues. “That boy would never even think of it, because he has principles,” he says, looking pointedly at Hornigold. “He has _honor_. He knows that piracy is more than this damned spit of land Britain wants back so badly.”

“He would not think of it, no,” Valjean echoes, and Javert looks away, anxiety lining his face.

“Look at all of you, condemning me to the devil before I’ve even made a choice,” Hornigold says, scowling. “Blaming a man for wanting thinking about how best to survive. It’s a damned mob mentality. We don’t even know if the pardons mean they’re coming for Nassau.”

“You’re thinking of joining the ones with the mob mentality!” Teach calls after him as Hornigold storms out. “And of course it fucking does!”

“That man will betray us, just you wait,” Teach says, turning back toward Valjean and Javert. “To think I used to look up to him. To think I learned from him.”

“Perhaps he’ll come to his senses,” Valjean says. “Is Jennings still thinking about it as well?”

“Yes, damn him,” Teach answers. “But your lot and Captain Vane and Captain Rackham, plus Anne Bonny, Mary Read, all have sense, and their crews. Robins, I assume isn’t accepting?”

“No,” Valjean says, chuckling. “He’s raring for a fight. I think we have a good amount unwilling to turn on the black,” he continues. “Besides, they’ve tried to eradicate piracy for generations, and though it ebbs and flows, they’ve never been entirely successful, have they?”

“On the spirit of Henry Avery may your optimism be validated,” Teach says, clasping Valjean’s shoulder. He turns his eyes on Javert, who tenses. “And you? What do you think?”

“Me?” Javert asks, skeptical.

“I’m quite certain I’m addressing you,” Teach says, short.

“I think…” Javert says. “I think having as much of a loose coalition as you can would be best. But it doesn’t require everyone.”

“A coalition indeed,” Teach mutters, then eyes Javert again. Javert looks back, and the lack of fear in his eyes, makes a smile flicker briefly on Teach’s face. “You’d best be a part of that coalition, Javert,” he continues. “I don’t imagine the powers that be have a particularly pleasant fate drawn up for you.”

With that Teach taps the table twice and leaves them, the usual noise of the tavern more subdued over the past few months.

“What was that supposed to mean?” Javert asks, annoyed.

“What?” Valjean asks, distracted.

“About my unpleasant fate,” Javert says, impatient.

“Oh,” Valjean replies. “Well you know Teach, he has a flair for the dramatic.” Valjean pauses, seeing this isn’t doing much to reassure the unnerved look on Javert’s face. “But…well to be quite honest, Javert, you are technically a pirate now, even if you haven’t sailed with us.You consort with us, you live with us. And you didn’t exactly leave the navy on positive terms.”

“No,” Javert grumbles. “I didn’t.”

“How does it feel to be a rogue?” Valjean says, unable to stop himself from teasing.

“Stop it Valjean,” Javert says, a tiny half smile breaking onto his face in amusement.

“A scoundrel,” Valjean says, pushing the matter.

“I said stop it,” Javert answers. “God you sound like Auden Courfeyrac. Or Bahorel.”

“They keep me young,” Valjean says. Javert looks up at feeling seeing Fantine approach, hands coming to rest on Valjean’s shoulders. “Ah, Fantine. You’ve just missed Teach.”

“Missed him shouting at Hornigold, you mean,” Javert adds, watching as Fantine and Feuilly sit down on either side of Valjean, while Cosette sits down next to him.

Javert sees Valjean suppress a chuckle when Javert smiles awkwardly at Cosette, who he has admittedly grown a soft spot for. She pats him on the shoulder, returning the smile.

“Shouting?” Cosette asks.

“About the pardons, I’d wager?” Feuilly clarifies.

Valjean nods, growing serious again. “Ben’s leaning closer to taking it, if they press the matter.”

“You mean as in sending a governor here,” Fantine says.

“The navy was reluctant to send crews too close before, for fear of losing the ships” Javert adds. “What makes you think they’d send a governor with a force?”

“Because now they’ve got nothing to lose by doing so,” Valjean says. “They’re embarrassed and want to make a show of power. We’ve blocked them in, and they’re desperate.”

“What do you think of the pardons, Javert?” Fantine asks.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Javert questions, more nervous than impatient.

“Well you’re one of us, aren’t you?” Feuilly asks, raising both eyebrows.

“Mmm,” Javert says, unsure. “I don’t know that my opinion matters a great deal. But my mother doesn’t like it, I will say that.”

“She and Chantal have already started crating some of their materials, just in case,” Fantine says. “It can’t hurt. Though if they’re going to make a move I wish they’d just do it, and spare us this nervous waiting.”

The three of them remain for a half hour longer, departing after a drink. Cosette leaves a kiss on Valjean’s cheek, and with that they’re gone, leaving the two of them alone again.

“Javert,” Valjean says, a reprimand in his voice. “Rene told me about your argument over the pardons a few weeks ago.”

“It was a difference of opinion,” Javert insists, defensive.

“A difference of opinion you haven’t mentioned to him since,” Valjean argues, crossing his arms over his chest.

“My god does he run to you every time we disagree?” Javert asks.

“No,” Valjean says. “But he was worried.”

“ _I’m_ worried,” Javert blurts out, a far cry from his usual composure. “Worried he’ll get himself killed, which is not what Michel wanted. Worried my mother will get herself killed. Worried you will get yourself killed,” he mutters, voice barely audible.

“What?” Valjean asks.

“You heard me Valjean,” Javert snaps.

“Javert,” Valjean says, gentler. “None of us know what exactly will happen. But you cannot pretend as if things are not changing. If we end up losing the island, then you will either have to stay and take the pardon, or go with us.”

“If I am even eligible for the pardon,” Javert says. “I am not just a man who consorts with pirates. I am also a deserter.”

Javert hears the shame in in his own voice, though he suspects that has more to do with his feeling in limbo than regretting his choices

 “Do you regret making your choice to come here, Javert?” Valjean asks.

“No,” Javert says, shaking his head. “I only…” he cuts himself off. “You said Rene was worried?”

“He worries if they send a governor that they’ll hurt you, or they’ll offer you something to make you go back to your old life,” Valjean explains.

“He should know I can’t be bought.”

“There are prices other than money,” Valjean says. “He wants you to sail with us, Javert. Whether we lose Nassau or not. I think he’s made that known. I’m only reiterating. If it helps, I had to coax it out of him. I’ve known him a long time, and I knew something was the matter.”

There’s a pause, a silence, and Javert drains the rest of his drink, looking away from Valjean.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Javert says, though by now their twice weekly time together when Valjean is ashore is routine by now.

“Of course,” Valjean says, nodding, a friendliness in his expression that Javert still doesn’t fully understand. They play cards together, they drink together, though both scarcely ever drink more than a glass of wine or beer, they talk together, and sometimes argue.

He would dare to call Valjean a friend. It had been difficult to call anyone such, after Michel’s death, but the truth of it was inevitable. And friends, he knew, were meant to be vulnerable with each other in times that called for such things.

“Valjean?”

“Hmm?” Valjean asks.

“Do you think someone will come to Nassau?”

“I couldn’t claim to know,” he answers, honest. He hesitates, reaching out and patting Javert’s hand, affection in his touch without any condescension. “But to be truthful with you, I don’t know if that’s really the question you’re asking; it simply speeds along the decision you will one day have to make regardless, if a governor does appear on our shores.”

Javert knows he’s right.

But still, he finds he cannot answer.

* * *

**Nassau. July 1718.**

Javert doesn’t see the ships at first.

He walks along the beach in the early hours of the morning; It’s foggy and still half dark, the sky an odd mish mash of dusky light gray-blue and a darker hue around the edges.

When he sees the first set of masts, he doesn’t think much of it; a pirate ship returning home, no doubt. Perhaps Teach’s _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ which left a few weeks ago and hadn’t yet returned.

He sees a second set.

Still this doesn’t concern him.

But then he sees a third.

A fourth.

Fifth.

Sixth.

_Seventh._

He pulls his old spyglass out of his coat pocket, one of the few remnants left of his naval career.

Seven ships were not far distant, the fog obscuring them from view from the sparse, sleepy crowds up at this hour. It also slowed them down, but they were coming.

“By god,” he mutters to himself, the sight socking him in the stomach.

One of those was a warship.

Two.

_Three._

The other four were smaller, and he cannot tell if they all have guns, but the three warships loom, ominous.

He swallows, eyes widening before he lifts up the spyglass again.

No colors, yet. But unless a group of pirates larger than the Flying Gang approached, he knew this was no friendly force.

“My god,” he hears a voice say behind him, turning to see Gavroche standing near, along with Captain Robins. “What the hell do they mean?”

“Could be a particularly large fleet of privateers,” Robins says, though it’s clear he doesn’t believe any such thing. “Gavroche,” he says. “Go retrieve Enjolras and Valjean immediately, rouse the house, the captains and some crew will need to be on the ships in case they start opening fire.”

Gavroche nods, a piece of his dark blond hair falling into his face. “What should I tell them?”

“Just…” Robins hesitates, eyes flitting toward a break in the fog, seeing the British colors go up, the flag flapping ominously in the wind. There’s some sort of signal flare, but there’s no making it out from this far, with the weather. “Tell them we’ve spotted seven ships in the harbor, three of them war ships, and we need to be at the ready.”

Gavroche says nothing more, dashing off back toward town, his young legs carrying him quickly.

“I’d say I hope the weather made them misjudge and run aground,” Robins mutters. “But then we’d still be stuck with them.”

“Do you suppose the fort or the ships will fire on them first?” Javert asks.

“I’m not certain,” Robins says. “But they may want to see what happens first. We’ve a good number, but Teach is away, and we’ve lost a couple of crews since news of the pardon. Come along, let’s go to the harbor.”

Still endlessly surprised at Robins’ attitude toward him given Javert was once responsible for sending him to the gallows, Javert still follows. Robins’ meets his quartermaster on the way then dashes off to his ship. Enjolras looks around for a sign of Enjolras or Valjean but sees none through the growing crowd on the beach as the news spreads through Nassau town. He stands awkwardly alone in the crowd for a few minutes until he sees Astra, Imogen, his mother, and Chantal walking toward him, shocked.

“What the devil?” his mother whispers, voice cracking. She puts her hand on his arm, wrapping it tightly around his elbow.

“British colors,” Javert says.

“Where’s Rene?” Astra asks, a note of panic resting within the forced calm, Imogen’s hand going down to clasp hers.

“Going to the _Liberte_ , I was told,” Javert says, and they exchange a worried glance. “Valjean and Fantine have gone to the _Misericorde_. Gavroche went to rouse them.”

“And Frantz is with him?” Chantal asks.

“I can’t imagine he’d be anywhere else,” Javert answers.

“Is there going to be a battle right here in the bay?” Imogen asks.

“I don’t know,” Javert answers, keeping hold of his patience, because he doesn’t know what will happen and he can’t _do_ anything. “With those warships I wouldn’t blame them for waiting and seeing. We have more ships on our side, but the guns on those warships are not something to sneeze at, and nor is the apparent manpower,” he says, seeing hoards of British marines at the rail.

Javert sees pirates clambering onto their ships, some remaining on shore, armed to the teeth, and yet still others dashing off to the fort.

Still, no one fires.

The minutes pass and the ships grow closer and closer, the entire crowd gathered on the beach and the ships and the fort holding its collective breath.

Then a loud boom blasts from the fort, a cannon ball striking one of the warships on the port side, but nothing follows.

A warning.

Then Javert sees one of the warships strike their colors.

“Why are they doing that do you suppose, my dear?” Tiena asks, her grip growing even tighter. “They can’t bring all those ships here and not mean to have a fight.”

“I think they don’t want a fight right this moment,” Javert says, grim. He looks at her, concerned. “Perhaps the four of you should go, I don’t know what might happen.”

“You’re very kind Nicholas,” Astra says, offering him a tight, worried smile. “But we’re going to stay right here.” Her hand ghosts over the dirk strapped to her belt, her skills honed by Fantine over the past two years. She still wears Michel’s wedding ring around her neck in memory. He watches Astra’s eyes dart out toward the _Liberte_ , her breath hitching slightly, and Imogen wraps an arm around her shoulders in comfort. Chantal reaches for Tiena’s free hand then takes Astra’s free one, linking them all together.

They wait, and no one else fires.

The warships are no sloops and far too large for the harbor proper, which is too shallow even for some mid-sized frigates like the _Liberte_ , so they wait even longer as one longboat fills up with a single man surrounded by soldiers.

Then a second, just with soldiers.

They row slowly, _agonizingly_ , toward the beach from the bay.

When the boat hits the sand Javert watches the man climb out, his boots shinier than they ought to be after such a long journey. The man stands up, straight-backed, though not as tall as Javert. His hunter green coat is immaculate, though the shirt beneath a bit rumpled, his tan breeches stainless. He wears no wig but instead his light brown hair stays tied back in a neat queue. He looks around at the crowd. Javert tears his eyes away from him for a split second when he hears the sounds of a scuffle; one of the naval warships has successfully blocked Charles Vane’s ship in, and the men on both sides were firing at each other, though with pistols rather than cannons. The sound dies off, and despite the hoard of pirates surrounding him, the man standing before them still looks smug, though Javert supposes he would be less so without the firepower at his back.

“I am Woodes Rogers,” he says, making his voice project, though Javert’s not certain the men on the ships can hear him. “And I am the new colonial governor of New Providence Island.”

Woodes Rogers was a familiar name to him; he’d read his book _A Cruising Voyage Round the World_ at Michel’s request, and though Michel enjoyed the book, he hadn’t thought much of Rogers’ reputation as time passed. Rogers had also gone on some sort of expedition to Madagascar for something or the other, and Javert cannot quite recall the details, though he knew it had something to do with pirates. He did remember that despite his successful turn around the world for which he was lauded, his men later sued him for not receiving their correct share of the profits, something that made Michel’s opinion of him sink further.

This was not the man he’d expected. He’d expected a far older nobleman of some sort that barely knew his way around a boat, not an experienced seaman, not an experienced fighter who knew just what he was doing.

There’d been rumors later, of his brutality in the fights he encountered in the Pacific, and as the sun breaks through the diminishing fog, Javert sees a faint scar on the side of his forehead.

A thick, heavy silence falls like an oppressive blanket on the crowd, until one sound breaks through.

“The hell you are!”

Woodes Rogers turns toward the source, a condescending smile forming on his lips.

“There’s no call to be rude, Captain Rackham. I’ve only just arrived.”

Behind them, Javert sees some of the gun ports on two of the warships open up, and he realizes some of the other ships are being turned in a different fashion.

A blockade.

And a warning of their own.

“I have come to deliver on the King’s Pardon you have all heard about,” he continues. “You will have some time to decide, never fear, but I’m afraid your options are a bit…limited. Now,” he says, looking around the crowd. “Can someone please direct me to a Mr. Nicholas Javert, former captain of His Majesty’s Navy?”

At first, Javert doesn’t process the words. In fact he doesn’t process them at all until his mother presses his arm tight to the point of pain.

“I suggest you come forward,” Rogers calls out. “Or you may not like the result to your new fellows.”

“Nicholas,” she whispers. “Do not.”

“I have to,” he answers, barely audible. “I don’t know what he’ll do if I don’t.”

Truth be told, he can barely believe the words emerging from his mouth.

Worry, for an island full of pirates.

“He could arrest you,” Tiena says, voice cracking. “Kill you. I’m not ready for that.”

“He’ll find me sooner or later,” Javert says, his own voice tremulous. He leans down, pressing a kiss on her now wrinkled cheek. “You know he will. I suspect he wants some sort of deal. Try not to worry.”

“I’ve spent my life worrying over you,” Tiena says, their slowly louder whispers drawing some eyes.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

He moves his eyes away, and doesn’t direct them toward anyone else, feeling the nervous tension throbbing in the air around him.

He steps forward, walking toward the edge of the beach.

“I’m Nicholas Javert,” he says, stopping in front of Rogers, and locking eyes with him. “ _Sir_ ,” he adds, not without a hint of sarcasm.

 “Good, good,” Rogers says, a smirk on his face like a man who’s caught his prey. “I was told I might find you here.”

“And who told you that?” Javert asks, clenching his teeth and controlling an unexpected burst of temper.

 “A certain Baron Andrew Travers,” Rogers says, relishing the words as if he knows the power they hold. “He heard of the plans for my expedition here, and lent me some intelligence about the place, and some of the people on the island, you see.”

Javert bites back a gasp of surprise, the name causing him pain even still. He shuts his eyes for a second, the image of Michel crashing to the deck, blood from his abdomen spilling across the wood, overtaking him. He feels Michel’s hand grasping his own as they talked in the quiet of Rene’s cabin not a half hour before the life fled from his body, a haze of grief hanging over them like unbroken gray clouds.

Javert doesn’t answer, staring back at Rogers, a thousand questions running through his mind.

“Hmm,” Rogers says, running his eyes up and down. “Williams!” he calls out, ushering one of the soldiers from behind him forward. “Arrest this man, and take him to my cabin on the ship, if you please.” He turns back to Javert. “I would suggest you not resist.”

The soldier pulls a set of irons from his belt, locking them around Javert’s wrists. To Javert’s surprise, a voice calls out into the heavy quiet.

“Hey!” a man from Rene’s crew, Taylor, calls out. One of Bossuet’s carpenter’s mates, Javert thinks. “That’s our captain’s friend you’ve got there, and you don’t have the power to do that here. This is our island. Teach is the one with the authority to do anything like this, as magistrate.”

“And yet the infamous Blackbeard isn’t here,” Rogers points out. “Or did I miss the _Queen Anne’s Revenge_ in the bay? Did he run away like a coward?”

“He’s at sea,” Javert says, voice hard.

“A bad time to leave, then,” Rogers says. “This is not your island,” Rogers calls out to the crowd. “It is Britain’s.” He arranges his face, smiling. “But his majesty King George has seen fit to show you mercy and allow you back into the folds of civilization. I suggest you think seriously about taking the offer. You will have a few weeks to decide, so long as you do not revolt against me in the immediate future. Just remember that I have all our best interests in mind, if you will only cooperate with the law.”

At this, some of the pirates tighten their grip on their weapons.

“Shoot,” Rogers says. “And I guarantee my ships in the bay will retaliate. You are blocked in.” He turns back toward Williams. “Let’s go. Put him in the boat.”

There’s nothing for it. Javert lets the man pull him along and into the longboat, Rogers following behind as they row back to the ship, the two boats of soldiers behind them. Javert hears a crash of noise from behind, voices rising and clattering against one another from the beach as the crews on the ships look around for any advantage.

For now, there isn’t one, at least not one found in the swell of panic in the air.

As they row toward one of the warships, Javert looks across at the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_ ; he doesn’t see Valjean, but he does make out Enjolras’ figure standing near the rail in his red coat, though he’s too far away to make out any sort of expression. Javert only sees him turn back around, gesturing urgently at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who stand at this side. Javert receives stares from the naval officers on board; men assigned to the Channel before this voyage, he suspects, and never the Caribbean, if their unburnt skin was any indication. He’s half flung into a chair in the center of the room, and Rogers comes to stand in front of him, two marines guarding the door.

“Would you like some tea?” Rogers asks, polite, leaning against his desk.

“I don’t generally accept things from men who have put me in irons,” Javert says, sharp.

“Well if you listen to my proposal I assure you I will have them removed,” Rogers says, still with that strange smile. “But we’re waiting on someone.”

“What proposal?” Javert asks.

“Just a moment,” Rogers says, hearing a knock at the door, and the two marines move to the side. “Ah, Captain Anderson,” Rogers’ says, and Javert’s eyes go wide.

Anderson. It was a common enough name, Javert tells himself. Yet he doesn’t remember any Anderson on the post list under captain, but there could be countless men with that name promoted to the position in the two years since he came to Nassau.

But as the man steps into view, there’s no question.

“I believe you two know each other?” Rogers asks, knowing full well they do.

“Anderson,” Javert says, openly flabbergasted. “I…”

“Assumed my career ruined because of you?” Anderson says, some anger in his voice, but the hesitation and sympathy in his eyes gives him away. “Luckily not, though very nearly. Admiral Adams has me reassigned back to England, after everything that happened. On a ship of much less consequence. But we saw some action, and my captain was killed. By pirates, as it were. A French crew roaming the Channel. I had to step up to the task.”

“When they returned and I was selecting the crews for the warships,” Rogers cuts in. “I heard of Anderson’s experience with pirates as your first officer. And I thought he would be an excellent choice for this voyage, given his knowledge. Some men were…unwilling to accept the post. Too cowardly to fight the pirates, I suppose.”

Rogers offers Anderson a chair, but remains standing himself. Anderson meets Javert’s eyes for a split second, looking sorry but unwilling to disobey. He’d been a good first officer; a talented sailor, a quality fighter, and able to keep the men in line while somehow still being well-liked, a thing which Javert could never really achieve. Respect, yes, but less so any sort of affection for his less than amiable personality. He remembers the last conversation he properly had with Anderson, when his own mind was nothing more than a melted mess disguised as strategy.

_Captain Javert?_

_Yes Anderson?_

_I’m sorry, sir._

_Thank you, Anderson._

“How did you know to look for me here?” Javert asks, looking away from Anderson and back toward Rogers. “I was a captain of middling consequence, no great hero from the war of the Spanish succession that you might like.”

“Ah but you do yourself a disservice,” Rogers says. “Perhaps you didn’t have any actions from the war with Spain to your name but you were the foremost pirate hunting captain in the navy. And you were quite talented at it. You even brought a few pirate ships into the service once you seized them, didn’t you? And yet here you are, among them. And all for the love of what? The memory of a dead comrade and his rogue of a son?”

Javert jolts, hands grasping the arms of the chair so tightly the blood rushes forth, blooming red underneath his fingernails.

"I'm not going to be some sort of...Judas," Javert says, reaching for the name from his long ago biblical education as a boy on an East India ship under a staunchly Christian captain, and the church services he sometimes attended with Michel out of obligation. If asked, he said he was a Christian, but it didn’t run deep.

"I fear you've done that already," Rogers says. "By turning your back on everything honorable you've ever done. On the navy. On civilization."

"Be that as it may," Javert says, refusing to get into the specifics of his change of heart with this man. "I have another debt to repay."

"To Michel Enjolras?"

Javert nods. "I will not take your blood money for his son."

"Blood money," Rogers scoffs. "What I'm offering is a great deal more. It's your full re-instatement into the service, with the already granted permission of the Admiralty in London. "Besides, I'm not asking you to kill _him_ , specifically. He will have his choice about taking the pardon or not. I'm simply asking you to take up your old post of being a pirate hunter. Possibly even on one of those warships outside, taking my place as captain of the vessel after I… _tame_ this place and settle in, assuming my success. I’m no fool; I’m certain I could use a man of your talents when the pirates inevitably revolt. When they perhaps draw more of their own kind in from other areas that don’t congregate here.”

Javert hates the temptation coming to rest in his chest, hearing Valjean’s words from a few months ago echoing in his mind.

_But to be truthful with you, I don’t know if that’s really the question you’re asking; it simply speeds along the decision you will one day have to make regardless, if a governor does appear on our shores._

He imagines himself again in his naval uniform with men at his command.

But they would never respect him, not now. And he knew that this was nothing more than the powerful using him to their ends. It was Baron Travers taking one last swipe at his grandson, even from afar.

It couldn’t last.

"Which is as good as asking me to kill him," Javert shoots back.

“Only if you think he won’t accept the pardon,” Rogers’ says, catching on. “His grandfather said he wouldn’t.”

Rogers moves from his place against the desk, circling Javert’s chair.

“Baron Travers said you had grown soft,” he continues. “Soft enough even to befriend that Fauchelevent pirate you let escape all those years ago.”

“He is a good man,” Javert says without hesitation. “I’m afraid Baron Travers is not. Though from what I’ve heard of you, I’m not surprised you found a kindred spirit in him.”

In a flash Rogers reaches out, taking a firm hold of Javert’s lapels, breathing angrily in out through his nose.

“I am offering you the world,” he seethes. “The chance to erase this black mark off your record.”

“My existence has been a black mark to civilization since the day I was born, if people managed to recognize my heritage,” Javert says, hearing Rene in his own voice. “They would be hard pressed to erase the record of even someone like Rene, who was well born. They would never truly erase it from someone like me.”

“Governor,” Anderson says, placating. “I would bid you to let Javert go, please. We need to give him time to consider the offer. Emotions are running high.”

Rogers lets go at this, narrowing his eyes at Javert. But before any of them says another word there’s a knock and the door opens, the two marines springing aside in surprise.

“Let him go,” Enjolras says, danger in his voice, Courfeyrac standing beside him. “Now.”

* * *

**Aboard the Liberte.**

"Rene, dammit," Courfeyrac seethes, eyes glistening and wet. "Far be it from me to tell you not to run headlong into a dangerous situation, I know what we're about, but I'll stand to be a hypocrite here and ask you not to do this."

"I have to," Enjolras says, very gentle, reaching over for Courfeyrac's hand.

"I've tried to be easy with him being here," Courfeyrac says. "I've been friendly to him. But this is you risking your life for him. There's dozens of marines and naval officers on that ship. Even if they let you in, you step out of line for one second and what’s to stop them from shooting you on the spot? As a matter of fact, how many times have you told me not to go rushing into something full of rage and without a strategy, hmm?”

"I don't know what they'll do to Javert if I don't go," Enjolras says. “I’m not planning to go in there and wave my sword about wildly, I promise. I don’t think they want to start off by killing any of us. He wants to make a good impression. That’s an advantage that may not last long.”

Courfeyrac doesn't answer, turning to Combeferre.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" he asks, desperate. There's a pause as he reads Combeferre's expression. "Don't tell me you _agree_ with him?”

"He has to go," Combeferre says, shaking his head. "Or they might kill Javert for all we know."

“Well then I’m coming with you,” Courfeyrac says, leaving little room for argument.

“I need you to go stand in for me at the captains’ meeting,” Enjolras protests.

“I’ll go,” Combeferre says, cutting of Courfeyrac’s argument. “And I’ll tell Valjean where you’ve gone. I suspect he and Fantine might follow when they’re able.”

The three of them stand quiet, countless thoughts racing through Enjolras’ mind. What will they do? Will they fight for the island? Will they try to leave the island? What crews will take the pardon and which ones won’t? Would men like Hornigold truly do as they’d threatened? He shakes his head, feeling the eyes of the crew on him, looking for answers. First, he has to get Javert out of there.

“The two of you are always more understanding of Javert than I am,” Courfeyrac says, soft. “And I know why. I know you saw him in ways I never did. I don’t want something to happen to him, truly. I just…I don’t trust him in this situation like I wish I could. Like you both do.”

“That’s why I’m going to the captains’ meeting,” Combeferre says, reaching out and pressing Courfeyrac’s hand, his own trembling. “That way you can keep an eye on things and you won’t have to watch both of us go in there after Javert.”

“I really don’t wish him ill,” Courfeyrac says, and Combeferre raises his eyebrows. “Anymore,” Courfeyrac clarifies.

“We know,” Enjolras says, shifting his shoulder belt so it sits correctly; he’d dashed out of the house this morning at hearing the news, dressing haphazardly. “Truly, Auden.”

“Don’t get yourselves killed, please,” Combeferre says, his tone dryly joking, but Enjolras hears the worry beneath the words, reaching out on instinct and embracing his friend, Courfeyrac joining in.

“We won’t,” Enjolras answers. “I promise.”

They part ways then, Combeferre taking a long boat to shore and Enjolras and Courfeyrac taking another to row over to Rogers’ ship, though they’re halted by some voices behind them.

“Oy!” Bahorel shouts. “Just you hold on a moment, we’re coming with you.”

“No you are not,” Enjolras says, firm, eyeing Feuilly and Prouvaire both by Bahorel’s side. “Stay with the ship, if you please, I don’t want any of you getting hurt if this doesn’t go well.”

Bahorel ignores him, climbing down the ladder and slipping into the boat, Feuilly and Prouvaire following.

“I’m your captain,” Enjolras points out, knowing this argument won’t help him.

“So you are!” Bahorel exclaims. “We are also not in the middle of a battle and I’m not obliged to obey your orders without question, now am I?”

“No,” Enjolras grumbles rowing forward.

“Besides,” Feuilly says. “Combeferre said where you were going, and he didn’t think it a bad plan to have a guard outside the door should something go astray.”

“And I’ve got a piece of white cloth we can wave at them here,” Prouvaire says, raising the mentioned material.

“We’re not surrendering to them,” Enjolras protests.

“No,” Prouvaire says. “But it may help them not shoot at us as we approach. Which is exactly what you would say if you were thinking clearly and not worried about Javert. You are a talented strategist but it’s difficult to be so when someone you care about is in peril. Which is why we have friends. So no more protesting.”

Enjolras can’t help but smile, nodding in agreement. A silence settles over the boat after that, each of them lost in thought for the few minutes it takes to row across the bay, all of them scarcely able to think past the next moment or the next step or the next breath. Enjolras takes the white cloth from Prouvaire, waving it as they approach, then cups his hands over his mouth, making his voice carry.

“I’d like a word with Captain Rogers, if you please,” Enjolras calls up.

The marines look dubious, but they allow them up.

“One wrong move,” one of the officers says. “And you won’t like how it ends.”

Already tense, Bahorel makes for his sword, but Enjolras places a gentle hand on his friend’s arm, shaking his head, and Bahorel stands down, fire in his eyes.

Prouvaire, Bahorel, and Feuilly remain outside the door, the soldiers eyeing them warily, while the first officer knocks, but Enjolras pushes the door open before he’s done, hearing yelps of surprise from the other side.

“Let him go,” Enjolras says, stepping inside. “Now.”

The room stays silent, and Javert turns in his chair, closing his eyes briefly, sighing.

“And you are?” the man Enjolras recognizes as Woodes Rogers asks, none other than Javert’s old first officer Anderson standing next to him, looking nervous.

“Captain Rene Enjolras of the _Liberte_ ,” Enjolras says. “Consort to Captain Valjean of the _Misericorde_. This is my quartermaster Courfeyrac.” He pauses, locking eyes with Rogers. “And I would greatly appreciate it if you would let Javert go.”

“And I’m afraid I don’t owe you any favors,” Rogers says, stepping over closer to them.

“You said we had time to decide up on the pardon,” Courfeyrac snipes, coldly polite.

“So I did,” Rogers says. “But I’m afraid your friend here isn’t just a pirate. He’s also a deserter from the Royal Navy. Besides. I came here to offer the former Captain Javert a deal.”

“A deal?” Enjolras echoes.

“Rene,” Javert warns. “You should go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Enjolras says, firm.

Rogers surveys him, a glint of interest in his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

“I know who you are,” Enjolras echoes. “You wrote a book about your voyage around the world. You were famous for it.”

“Have you read it?”

“I have,” Enjolras says. “Some interesting points about navigation, though I’m quite certain you and I don’t agree at all on how any sort of trade should function, given I also know you did some work with East India in the slave trade. Near Madagascar, if the stories were true? You went looking for the pirates there, too. And failed, I might add.”

“You are a fool if you think somehow the slave trade is going to come tumbling down,” Rogers says, eyes narrowing, his voice dripping with condescension.

“I am a great many things,” Enjolras says, stepping forward, closer to Javert’s chair. “But I am not a fool. You’ve come here so you could…what? Reform us?”

“With religious pamphlets, apparently,” Courfeyrac says, pointing toward a stack sitting on Rogers’ desk. “I’m sure if we simply found our way to the lord it would make everything all better.”

“What you are doing is not sustainable,” Rogers’ says, irritated.

“Neither is what you’re doing,” Enjolras shoots back. “You decry pirates, but men like you created them, didn’t you? I would like to hear more about this deal you’ve offered Javert.”

Enjolras’ stomach knots at the words.

Part of him still worries Javert might take such a deal.

But another part of him, a larger part of him, believes in Javert.

If he’d taken the deal outright, he wouldn’t be wearing irons.

Rogers starts circling Enjolras and Courfeyrac, his steps slow and deliberate as he walks around.

“Your grandfather told me you were a spirited young man,” Rogers says. “He told me you would never take the pardon that was so generously offered.”

“My grandfather,” Enjolras says, the taste acidic in his mouth, but he doesn’t flinch at the mention like he has in the past. “Is a wretch. Who, among his plethora of sins, killed my father. But I’m sure you know that, if you’ve been any place around London society in the past two years. How do you know him?”

“He heard of my expedition here,” Rogers says, continuing his circling. “And came to see me to offer his intelligence about the Nassau pirates, his grandson among them. He also mentioned I might find a former naval captain here. A deserter who might be put to the cause of restoring his honor.” Enjolras looks over, seeing Javert’s shoulders go taut, then looks back at Rogers. “Who might be put to the cause of going after the pirates who ruined his life.”

Javert jolts at this, interjecting. “You said this wasn’t about going after Rene specifically,” he says, words sharp as the edge of a cutlass.

“It isn’t,” Rogers says. “He’s not the only pirate in your life, is he? This boy’s dead father was a pirate, in the end. Your mother is a pirate, is she not?”

“Leave my mother out of this,” Javert snarls.

“You grew up essentially a pirate,” Rogers continues, ignoring him. “And then spent a great deal of your career hunting them. Then you let them ruin you over sentiment.”

“I…” Javert says, stumbling over his words in a fit of emotion, looking oddly vulnerable, the stone around him cracking. “I just…”

“Leave him alone,” Enjolras says, stepping closer to Rogers, nearly toe to toe now. Behind him, he hears Courfeyrac shift as if his hand is going to his weapon, but there’s no sound of him unsheathing his dirk.

“My,” Rogers says. “You are _protective_ of a man who tried to kill you. Or so your grandfather said he did.”

“That,” Enjolras says, flat. “Is not any business of yours. What are the consequences if Javert doesn’t accept this deal you’re offering?”

“Oh,” Rogers says, flinging the words about casually. “He’ll be executed. Hung upon the yard arm like any other traitor.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Enjolras says. “That’s as good as making him your slave upon pain of death.”

“A slave, my god,” Rogers says, flippant. “He’d be a restored captain in the navy.”

“You won’t even offer him the normal pardon you’ve laid out for the rest of us?” Enjolras answers; he doesn’t like the idea of Javert taking that pardon, either, but he cannot make Javert’s choices for him. “You’re demanding he hunt pirates for you, or die. I’m sure you might get some men hunting their fellows, but as far as I know that wasn’t required.”

“No,” Rogers says. “But he deserted his duty, and that, I’m afraid, is punishable by death in the naval code.”

“And you wonder why there are pirates,” Courfeyrac seethes.

“Rene,” Javert says, his voice heavy. “You should go. Both of you should _go_.”

“I will not let him treat you like this,” Enjolras insists.

 “If you wanted the best for him,” Rogers says. “Perhaps you would encourage him to take the deal.”

“Javert’s choices are his own,” Enjolras says, holding back the crack in his voice. “But I cannot imagine that what’s best for him lies in working for the likes of you.”

“Oh?” Rogers says, his face reddening, though he keeps his voice even. “And why is that?”

“My grandfather was one of the many who leant you money for this expedition, I suppose?” Enjolras asks.

“He was,” Rogers answers, narrowing his eyes.

“Then I’m certain your deal is not something Javert should take, my own personal investment in him not taking it aside,” Enjolras replies. “My grandfather would have liked to destroy Javert, if he could. I’m certain his directing you to Javert is only another attempt to do so from afar. Perhaps he hopes if he can destroy Javert, he can destroy me too.”

“So you believe there are no honorable men among civilization then?” Rogers asks. “Your grandfather is a well-born man.”

“Of course there are honorable men among civilization,” Enjolras spits. “There are plenty. You should take note of the sort of ships we attacked; it was not done randomly. I knew officers of my father’s who were good men,” he says, thinking particularly of Arthur, but also of others who passed in and out of his father’s crew. “I’m not spreading a broad blanket over all men; I am criticizing the cruel way things are structured. My grandfather holds an enthusiastic place in upholding that structure.”

“So you would rather Javert die, then?” Rogers asks. “As opposed to taking this deal.”

“For that to happen,” Enjolras says, voice going low, danger resting in every syllable. “You would have to go through me first.”

“And he wouldn’t be alone,” Courferac adds, hand tightening on his the handle of his dirk.

“My but you are courageous, given your ships are blockaded in the harbor,” Rogers says. “I would suggest you rethink your threats.”

“And I suggest,” Enjolras says, glaring. “That you not underestimate people who managed to bring the trade of three colonial empires to its knees.”

“Perhaps we should all take a moment to think,” Anderson interjects, anxious. “And give Javert and Enjolras some time to consider their choices.”

Rogers ignores him, stepping up even closer, and Enjolras feels their boot toes meet.

“I’m not afraid of a man who is so desperate to retake his fame from the shadow of an embarrassing bankruptcy he earned from cheating his men,” Enjolras says, his voice a threatening whisper. “That he would do anything to regain it, no matter the cost of his honor.”

Rogers raises his hand in a flash, making to slap Enjolras full in the face, but Enjolras’ catches his wrist, squeezing it tight and forcing Rogers’ attention. Javert looks at them, wide-eyed.

“Let go of me,” Rogers snipes.

“I grew up getting slapped around by my grandfather,” Enjolras says, leaning closer. “I couldn’t stop him then. But I can stop you now.”

Rogers huffs, not responding.

“No matter if you drive us from this island,” Enjolras says. “No matter if you drive us from the Caribbean, no matter if you drive us across the _world_ , this revolution we’ve enacted will never truly die, do you hear me? Not until the reasons piracy exists cease to be. The world does not change all at once, but it _does_ change. And you are not change’s agent. We are. Change may wear different faces across time, it may use different tactics, but none of them look anything like you.”

There’s another knock at the door, and Enjolras hears Valjean’s voice from behind just as Rogers pulls out of his grip, breathing angrily.

“I seem to have missed something,” Valjean says, slow with his words.

“What’s going on here?” Fantine adds, and Enjolras turns behind him, looking at them both. “Why is Javert in irons?”

“Captain Rogers,” Valjean says, a very thin veneer of civility in his voice, if only because he senses something about to erupt in the room. “I…”

“I know who you are,” Rogers snaps. “As I would like to avoid any unnecessary violence on my first morning here, I suggest all of you go before I think twice upon it. Anderson, undo Javert’s irons.”

Silence falls as Anderson does so, and out of instinct Enjolras takes Javert’s sleeve, all of them turning to go. Rogers might have three warships, but he’s still facing the pirate ships in the bay; the best way to start a full insurrection would be to fire upon them. Any pirates seeing them killed or taken to the brig after coming onto the ship would no doubt start a panic Rogers doesn’t want.

“I suggest all of you think carefully about my offer,” Rogers says, barely contained rage in his voice. “It is in your best interests.”

“Pardon, but am I to assume that Javert’s offer is different from the King’s Pardon?” Valjean asks, anger cutting into the usual kindness.

“I’ll let your consort fill you in on the details,” Rogers says. “ _Captain_.”

Enjolras watches Rogers and Valjean stare at one another, watches one man who could have so easily enslaved the other, who had enslaved so many others like him, glare as if he was the one who had the right to his rage.

“I’m certain we can all come to a conclusion that will benefit us all,” Rogers says, evening out his tone, squelching the fury. “And that falls under the law.”

When Enjolras looks closer at Valjean, he realizes his hands are shaking, Fantine reaching out and putting a reassuring hand on his wrist.

“I’m not certain that’s true,” Valjean says. “Good day, Captain Rogers.”

Enjolras glares at Rogers one last time, taking Javert’s sleeve and making the other man go out in front of him. They meet Prouvaire, Bahorel, and Feuilly at the door, all climbing silently into their longboats. Fantine and Valjean follow them back onto the _Liberte_ , where most of the crew sits, waiting.

“I’m sorry for going without you,” Enjolras says, speaking first. “I hope you are not angry. But we all understandably had our attention divided, and I didn’t know if he would kill Javert.”

“No I understand,” Valjean says, a worried smile on his face. He looks over at Bahorel, Prouvaire, and Feuilly, arching one eyebrow. “You three, however,” he says. “Looked like you were about to pounce on those marines.”

“Oh,” Bahorel says in protest, clapping Valjean on the back. “As if your dear nephew here would have let me do something so reckless,” he continues, smirking at Feuilly, who rolls his eyes, fond. “We were just providing back up. I don’t think any of us,” he says, more somber, eyes flicking uncomfortably toward Javert. “Wanted to watch Enjolras or Courfeyrac put in manacles by forces of the British government again.”

Enjolras explains the terms of Rogers’ offer concerning Javert to Valjean, who looks with concern at the still silent Javert.

“If you wish for our protection,” Valjean says to him. “You shall have it.”

“Thank you,” Javert says, nodding.

Valjean tells Enjolras and Courfeyrac to gather the crew and meet aboard the _Misericorde_ in an hours’ time to discuss their plans, and Courfeyrac clasps Enjolras’ shoulder, leaving him alone with Javert.

“Into my cabin, if you would,” Enjolras says, and Javert agrees, following him, and not speaking until the door shuts behind them.

“Why did you do that?” Javert asks, voice splintered with anxiety. “I am not worth what you just did, Rene.”

“You are to _me_ ,” Enjolras says, breathing in and out quickly. “I don’t know what else I need to do to convince you of that.”

“He might kill you,” Javert says.

“He might kill _you_ ,” Enjolras echoes. “I don’t want that, Javert. I hope that you don’t want it, either. I…there are three choices here. And right now I wish I could say I know which one you would take.”

“I need to go check on my mother,” Javert says in response, conflict in face.

Enjolras nods, feeling his stomach sink, but determined not to give up. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened.

“Meet me tonight,” Enjolras says. “Here on the deck. I wouldn’t go anywhere other than your mother’s house or either of our ships, all right?”

“I won’t,” Javert says, hesitant before he reaches out, briefly clasping Enjolras’ shoulder. “Thank you, Rene. Your father would have been proud of the way you stood up to Rogers. _I_ am proud of you. When you seized his wrist like that it reminded me that you are not a child anymore. I have trouble with that, sometimes.”

The words strike Enjolras full force, the ball of determined hope growing hotter in his chest.

He will not lose Javert.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, offering a small smile. “I’ll see you tonight.”

* * *

**An hour later. The Misericorde.**

Valjean beckons the officers of the _Liberte_ to him as soon as they step onto the deck of the _Misericorde_. The deck’s overfull with pirates from both crews standing upon it, so he leads them into his cabin, shutting the door behind them after everyone files inside.

“As you have all heard from the congregation of the captains,” Valjean says without prelude. “Charles Vane has devised a plan to escape from the island.”

“Yes but is it a _good_ plan?” Bahorel asks, clearly fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Fortunately for us, yes,” Valjean says, smiling at him. “He received a note from Teach via a ship that returned, but came in on the other side of the island to avoid view. There may be a plan in the future to fight back to reclaim the island, but it was his thought, and I agree, that if we were to do so, we cannot while we are blockaded in. We must do it from the outside. We must regroup.”

“How could Teach hear of Rogers’ arrival?” Enjolras asks, “He only just got here.”

“There was a sighting of the ships going in the direction of New Providence Island,” Valjean explains. “And he heard word and assumed that many ships going in the direction of the island could only mean trouble for Nassau. The plan is to use a fire ship to break the blockade, and we will slip out in the chaos of that.”

“Hmm,” Enjolras says, and Valjean sees the thoughts spinning behind his eyes. “That’s clever, actually. How many have agreed to join this effort?”

“Vane, of course,” Valjean says. “Rackham along with Anne Bonny, our two ships, and Captain Robins, at present. Vane is sacrificing his larger ship and getting out on his sloop.”

“Jennings and Hornigold took the pardon, I assume?” Courfeyrac says, the anger prevalent in his voice.

“They have not joined us,” Valjean says. “So the assumption is yes. And while Rogers said we would have time to make our decision, I agreed with the rest that we shouldn’t linger. We will attempt in the morning, at dawn, if we are all agreed here.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement, and Valjean continues, clenching and unclenching his fists, nervous.

“You said there was something else?” Feuilly asks from beside him, noticing.

“There is,” Valjean says, slow, eyes darting over to Cosette and Fantine, who knew what he was about to say. “We are all about to embark into the unknown, and sometimes, I think that calls for a change. And right now, I think there needs to be a change in the leadership of the _Misericorde_ ; I am growing older, and have been captain for many years. Therefore, I am nominating Fantine to take my place. She has agreed to the idea, and Cosette has agreed to step in as quartermaster, should the men vote positively on the idea.”

Valjean looks around the room, watching all of them soak in the news, a surprised but not unpleasant silence falling over them.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Feuilly says, speaking first and putting a hand on Valjean’s arm.

Still after all these years, Valjean thinks his beloved nephew looks so much like the sister he stole for, the sister than unknowingly started this journey he’s found himself on.

After that Bahorel starts clapping, which spreads through the cabin until it grows nearly raucous, Fantine and Cosette both shy but proud.

“They haven’t voted yet now,” Fantine says. “Don’t get ahead of yourselves.”

“They will,” Bahorel says, grinning at her. “Trust me.”

“Seconded,” Enjolras says, meeting Valjean’s eyes with a smile.

“Let’s hear it for papa!” Cosette says. “For everything he’s done in leading us this far.”

She turns toward him, eyes sparkling, and pride swoops through him, despite all his worries about her stepping into the permanent role of an officer.

“To Valjean!” Jean Prouvaire calls out.

“Hear hear!” Courfeyrac cheers, flinging an arm around Marius, who stands next to him.

Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire all whoop at once, and Gavroche follows suit, a laugh rippling through the room.

A cheer goes up, and Valjean smiles until it hurts, taking Feuilly’s hand when it’s offered, and feeling Fantine leaning against him, pleased. The officers of both ships break up after this, stepping outside the cabin to gather the men for the vote.

“Rene, stay a moment if you would,” Valjean says. “And Bahorel as well, please.”

Fantine, Cosette, and Feuilly stay as well, leaving the room much less crowded than before, though the talking from the deck drifts through the doors.

“Eli you’re not going to like this,” Fantine says without preamble. “But I wanted to ask if you and Prouvaire would give me Gavroche from your gun crew for my first mate. With our crews at capacity again, I think we should fill the position to assist Cosette as quartermaster. Should the men vote positively, of course.”

“They _will_ ,” Bahorel says again. “And you want me to give up Gavroche? Boy’s practically my son Fantine how dare you?” he continues, fighting a smirk.

“One, because you love me,” Fantine says. “Two, because I’m asking you as a fellow officer. Three, because I think you’ve trained him well and he would be a good officer. I certainly don’t think the men will be opposed, he’s everyone’s favorite.”

“So he is,” Bahorel says. “Enjolras, are you all right with it?”

“Certainly,” Enjolras says, nodding. “I think it would be good for him.”

“All right,” Bahorel says, slow, poking Fantine in the side. “Let me convene with Prouvaire a moment but I think I can convince him.”

He steals a kiss from Fantine, then takes his leave, heading back up onto the deck to speak to Gavroche and Prouvaire both, leaving Enjolras with Cosette, Feuilly, Valjean, and Fantine. Valjean looks at Enjolras, seeing the tell-tale signs of a struggle in his eyes.

“Did Javert indicate his plans?” Valjean asks. “I saw him leave the _Liberte_ rather quickly.”

“No,” Enjolras says, sad frustration in his voice, clenching and unclenching his fists in the same way as Valjean does, and Valjean thinks he must have picked up the habit from the younger man. “He needed to go check on Tiena, and given that we’re making the attempt in the morning I’m sure she’ll need his help to pack whatever she can. I asked him to meet me on _Liberte_ tonight.”

“And?” Fantine questions, sensing he’s breaking off in the middle of a thought. “Come now Rene, we know you, there’s no need to be nervous.”

“Quite right,” Valjean adds, reaching out a hand and grasping Enjolras’. “Tell us what’s on your mind.”

“I know you’re filling the first mate position on the _Misericorde_ , and I wanted to discuss possibly filling it on the _Liberte_ ,” Enjolras continues. “I’ve discussed it with all my officers,” he says, quickly meeting Feuilly’s eyes. Feuilly nods, encouraging. “But obviously I would have to let the crew vote on it, and I didn’t want to do that without bringing it before you first.”

“You want to offer the position to Javert,” Valjean says.

“Yes,” Enjolras says, a familiar determination in his eyes, laced with a strange hesitance. “I know it’s…I know offering him something like that is different than him simply joining the crew, or sailing with us away from the danger Rogers’ presents to him, he already knows both of those options are open to him, but I…well…” he cannot quite finish the sentence, oddly stammering. “I know what I’m asking might not be possible. You would have every right to say no before I took it to the men, but I believe he’s changed. I believe that he needs some direction, and I think this might give it to him. I would also understand if the men felt cheated that he’s just joining and gets vaulted up so high, and I would never do it without their consent, of course, but…”

Valjean lets go of Enjolras’ hand, placing both of his own on Enjolras’ shoulders instead.

“It’s all right, Rene,” Valjean says, looking him in the eyes. “I think your instincts are right here. I think you should make the offer to Javert, if the crews approve. I think this one should likely be put to both ships, given…everything.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nodding, looking relieved. “I…thank you. Are you all right with it, Fantine?”

“I cannot sneeze at his skills,” Fantine says, but Valjean sees a smile in her eyes. “I think he’ll need a bit of an eye on him, the way we have things set up is different than he’s used to, but I trust that all of you will be able to do that, and we’ll help of course. I also think it would perhaps help him come with us, and it would add years back onto Tiena’s life.” She pauses, visibly softening. “Will it make you happy, Rene?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, nodding. “I think so. We’ll keep a sharp eye of course, but I believe if he makes the choice to accept, it would work out.”

“All right,” Fantine says, reaching out and tugging on his hair affectionately.

“What she isn’t saying,” Cosette chimes in. “Is that Javert’s grown on her a bit.”

“Oh,” Fantine says, flicking her daughter playfully in the arm. “That is a stretch. I know Rene cares about him and Valjean has for some reason adopted him, and his mother is a dear friend.”

“You don’t hate him anymore,” Cosette argues. “You told Jahni and I as much, didn’t she Jahni?”

“You did, I’m afraid,” Feuilly says, fighting a smile. “You said he’d grown, what was it? _More endearing than expected_ , but still grumpy and aggravating.”

“The wolf of the Caribbean, de-fanged,” Fantine says, dry, but she’s smiling now.

“Only partially,” Enjolras jokes. “I think the remaining ones might just be turned to a new purpose, if he could make himself admit he’d like it to be so.”

“Stubborn as he ever was,” Valjean says. “But yes, put it before the men. And then perhaps more difficult, putting it before him.”

“Inevitably,” Enjolras says, and Valjean squeezes his shoulders. Enjolras places one hand atop Valjean’s, pressing the fingers tight in affection before smiling at all of them and taking his leave.

“We have made a fine pirate out of that boy,” Fantine says, fond. “And now his mother too. And his father, before he was lost. We are a bad influence.”

“Hmm,” Valjean says. “So we are.”

“Perhaps you might sail with us for a bit, if this all goes as planned?” Feuilly asks. “You might like to keep Javert company, help show him the ropes.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Fantine adds. “If the men are willing to vote for me, of course.”

“They _will_ ,” Cosette says, slipping an arm through her mother’s.

“My goodness, trying to rid yourself of me already,” Valjean teases.

“Yes, a whole ship away, sailing right next to us,” Fantine says, mirth in her eyes. “With the ability to come aboard whenever you like.”

“I do think it’s a smart idea, Jahni,” Valjean says, returning to the original line of questioning, putting a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Hopefully you won’t mind sharing your quarters?”

“Not in the slightest,” Feuilly says, smiling wide.

Cosette kisses Valjean on the cheek, then she and Feuilly go out to finish the work of gathering the men, leaving Valjean and Fantine alone.

“So, tomorrow,” Fantine says, reaching out for Valjean’s hands.

“Tomorrow,” Valjean says, accepting. “It’s not the sort of plan I’d normally adopt, but I don’t think Vane is being reckless; there’s a strategy.” He looks out the window of the cabin toward Nassau, feeling a wave of sadness strike him.

This has been their home for so long.

“I know,” Fantine says, her voice reflecting his feelings, understanding without him speaking. “But these ships are our homes, too. Perhaps we can get Nassau back. And if not, perhaps we can see other parts of the world. I believe that we’ll figure it out if we make it out of this alive tomorrow. When I met you on the ship that day, I never could have imagined where it would lead. I could never have imagined any of this. Yet here we are, a former slave and a former convict. We figured all of that out, too.”

“So we did,” Valjean says, squeezing her hands. “I could not imagine a better person to take my place.” His voice shakes as he speaks, but he pushes the words out anyway. “You are the bravest person I know, Fantine. Truly. Thank you for seeing something in me all those years ago; none of this would be, if not for you.”

Fantine reaches forward, embracing him with all her might, love pulsating in her touch.

The vote is unanimous.

They must keep quiet on deck for fear of making Rogers’ ships take notice, but Valjean sees the joy on the crew’s faces despite the melancholy and the fear and the anxiety in the air, many of them clasping him on the shoulder. He watches Astra, Tiena, Chantal, Imogen, and Eponine gather around Fantine and Cosette, hugging them both tightly in congratulations. Astra catches his eye then waves, smiling broadly at him, the dirk Fantine taught her to use strapped to her belt.

Enjolras steps up next to Valjean, looking nervous, but determined.

“One more piece of business, if you please,” Valjean says. “For the attention of both crews.”

The excited murmuring dies down, leaving the anxiety of their situation in its wake. The crews look to Enjolras, expectant.

“First,” Enjolras begins. “I want to congratulate our new Captain Fantine,” he says, earning a grin from her as he looks across. “Second, I wanted to say that you are all some of the most generous, courageous men and women I’ve had the privilege to know,” he continues, his words solidifying as he speaks, a brightness hanging about him as Valjean watches, proud. “You stood by me in the most dangerous of circumstances, you welcomed people I loved into your fold.” His eyes land on Astra for a moment, watching as she fingers the wedding ring around her neck, one hand resting in Imogen’s. “One of those people once hunted us, but over time, you accepted him, too.” He looks at Tiena now, who grasps Chantal’s hand, hopeful. “And now I’m asking you to trust him. I’m asking you to trust me. But I would never do anything like this without the majority consent of both crews.”

It’s quiet again as Enjolras sorts out his words, gaze flickering over to Valjean who nods, encouraging.

“I’m asking you now,” Enjolras says, voice reverberating with belief. “To vote on electing Javert as first mate of the _Liberte_.”

* * *

**Later that night. Aboard the Liberte.**

Nassau falls quiet when the sun goes down. Enjolras waits near the bow and the men give him some space. He looks out, seeing an empty beach, the lights of the tavern and the shops extinguished, Nassau town largely dark. A few soldiers mill about on the beach, but Rogers hasn’t unloaded his ships and their crews.

Everyone waits, the tension hanging thick in the air.

Enjolras runs a loving hand over the foremast as he walks slowly around.

“We’re counting on you now,” he says softly to the _Liberte_. “To help get us out of here. To take us into whatever is next.”

The wood creaks beneath his feet almost in answer, and he smiles, looking out at his various friends scattered across the ship. Prouvaire and Bahorel sit with Gavroche on the quarter deck, sharing a small glass of rum in celebration of his promotion to first mate on the _Misericorde_. Bahorel ruffles Gavroche’s hair and the younger man yelps in frustration, Prouvaire laughing as he looks on, still wearing his trusted purple coat, stained permanently with gunpowder. Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire stand on the main deck with Musichetta, pointing out something in the sky as the sun vanishes and the sky grows dark. Feuilly and Courfeyrac are across on the _Misericorde_ with Cosette and Marius, standing near the helm. Courfeyrac spots him watching, and waves.

Enjolras feels a familiar hand rest on his shoulder.

“There he is,” Combeferre says, pointing down to the water, where a single longboat rows toward the _Liberte_ , carrying Javert. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Enjolras says, slipping one hand down and grasping Combeferre’s. “Or as all right as any of us are. I am going to miss this place.”

“So am I,” Combeferre says, squeezing his hand in return. “But it’s as you said isn’t it? There’s still a dawn out there on the horizon. New adventures and people to help. I believe that, too.”

Enjolras smiles, a bittersweet hope filling him up to the brim.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says, feeling himself overcome. “For everything you’ve ever been to me.”

Combeferre tilts his head, smiling in return, a silent question in his eyes.

 “We could die tomorrow if this goes ill,” Enjolras says in explanation. “I didn’t want to leave anything unsaid. Not to you.”

Combeferre blinks, his eyes growing wet. He presses a kiss to Enjolras’ forehead.

“The same to you, my dear friend,” Combeferre says as Enjolras holds his hand tighter, interlacing their fingers, remembering how as a child, he’d looked at their hands and wondered at people telling them they couldn’t have their dreams because they didn’t look the same.

Yet here they were, the captain and the navigator.

“Whatever comes next,” Combeferre says. “We will share it together.”

Enjolras pulls Combeferre’s hand closer, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before squeezing it once more, then letting go. Combeferre bids a quick hello to Javert before walking over toward Bossuet, Grantaire, and Joly, who look on, curious.

“You came,” Enjolras says as Javert comes up beside him, leaning against the rail.

“Of course,” Javert responds, looking over at him.

“Is Tiena all right?” Enjolras asks.

“Packing what she can into a chest or two,” Javert answers. “With Chantal. There’s a plan in place?”

“There is,” Enjolras says, not elaborating. “For now we’re hastily making sure we have enough supplies and rations, and waiting.”

“You cannot tell me what the plan is?”

“I cannot tell anyone who has not entirely agreed to take part,” Enjolras says. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I understand,” Javert says. “My mother and Chantal are to be here to board the _Misericorde_ in the morning, before dawn,” he continues. “That’s all I know, and that you are leaving. Your mother and Imogen are coming also, I imagine?”

“They are,” Enjolras says. “There’s some extra space for them here on the _Liberte_ , and Chantal and Tiena will take the extra space on the _Misericorde_. There may be other arrangements later, but for now that works best.”

“You will not fight for the island?”

“We very well may,” Enjolras says. “But for now, we must go. I love this place,” he continues. “But I cannot lose sight of our larger goals for the sake of the island. Our lives and our ability to continue on have to be more important. Even with the loss, I must take it as a victory that we made enough of a ruckus for them to bother with what they’re doing. Pirates have lost their islands before, haven’t they? Piracy continued.”

“So it did,” Javert says. “So it did.”

Enjolras looks up at the multitude of stars spread across the black canvas of the heavens, illuminating the blue of the ocean at their feet, distinguishable from the sky on such a bright night. The full moon pools on the water, pouring light that lands on Javert, the breeze carrying his words closer to Enjolras’ ears.

“What do you wish for, Rene?” Javert asks, his voice soft but shaking with feeling.

Enjolras closes his eyes, breathing in the salty air, sinking into the feeling of Nassau around him.

“The end of this republic-on-land of ours is not the end of everything,” Enjolras says. “But it has been a light, an anchor, a place to call home. I finished growing up here. I found the person I’d always wanted to be waiting for me on these shores. I wish we could keep it.”

“What else?”

“I wish for a world free of slavery and impressment. I wish for a land we could call our own, without the threat of reclamation, one where we could make everything function like it does on our ships; through the will of the people who sail them day in and day out,” Enjolras continues. He looks over, seeing the moonlight threading itself through the gray strands in Javert’s long black hair, lending a sheen to his eyes that looks more alive than Enjolras has seen in years. “We could farm and we could trade on equal footing with other places, and govern ourselves like we’ve already proven we can. I don’t believe that economic prowess must depend upon human misery. I believe the happiness and determination of the human race stronger and more important and more everlasting than the power of an empire. Piracy is a means to an end, not the end itself.”

He stops, looking at Javert, who looks back, his expression gentle. He nods, encouraging Enjolras to continue.

“It is the only way to make them listen,” Enjolras says, hearing the righteous anger in his own voice. “Not only to decry their practices, but to stop the flow of money and sacrificial human bodies they use to line their pockets. They turn into outcasts those who do not fit and those who dare defy their hierarchy and their rules. We must forge our own voice, because they will give us none.”

“You make me believe in things I never thought to search for,” Javert says. “I was so angry at you about them, when you were gone. But then one day I found myself wishing I could believe like you do, instead.”

“You can,” Enjolras whispers. “I believe you can. My father believed you could.”

“I think so often of that day when you discovered the slaves,” Javert says. “When I told you that you deserved the treatment you received from your grandfather because you didn’t obey. I said that to a child who loved me so dearly. Who trusted me.There are many other moments I look back upon and hear the cruelty in my own voice. But that one stands out to me. I am sorry, Rene.”

“I know you are,” Enjolras says. “I know.”

Javert gives him that awkward smile, the one that never quite seems to know what it is, then looks back out at the sea, the shadows of the warships hovering over the water.

“I think so often about what could have been,” Enjolras says, soft. “About what could have happened if somehow we could have stopped my grandfather from shooting my father. About what things would be like now. I remember when Frantz lost Arthur and how terribly final that felt. I thought that at least, even though I was separated from my father, perhaps one day we might be together, if he could just…” he trails off a moment, swallowing. “If he could be the man I knew was in him. And then he did. And I wasn’t a fool. I wasn’t a fool for thinking that just perhaps, the officer and his pirate son could rebuild something.”

“You aren’t a fool,” Javert says, on the edge of tears.

“Then I had him back,” Enjolras says. “After that loss, he was returned to me, he accepted the family I’d found for myself. But then he was gone again, and there was no bringing him back from that.”

“Rene…”

“I was so afraid that night, when I saw you on deck with the gun,” Enjolras says, not hearing him. “I was so angry at you. But I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Why did you ask me here, Rene?”

“Because I have an offer for you,” Enjolras answers. “That you could sail with us away from here you know. But I have a vacancy among my officers, as it happens. And I’d like to offer it to you.”

“Rene,” Javert says, flabbergasted. “No. Your crew will not agree. You should not sacrifice your good will among them.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras says. “I let them take a vote on it. The majority agreed.”

“Why?”

“Time has passed,” Enjolras explains. “They have grown to trust you more, and besides that, they trust me. They also liked the way you were willing to offer yourself to Rogers to prevent him from firing on our ships. A little good will goes a long way with them.”

“I…” Javert says. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Normally pirate crews don’t fill the position of first mate,” Enjolras says in response. “Most of that responsibility falls to the quartermaster. But with what’s ahead, we’ll need more voices at the table, and we’ve filled out some of empty spaces in our crews now, so there’s more men to look after. Bahorel has agreed to give up Gavroche from the gun crew to be Fantine’s first mate, along with Cosette as the quartermaster. I would like you to be mine.”

Javert stares at him, and Enjolras almost laughs.

“You will have to work a great deal with Frantz as sailing master and Feuilly as boatswain, which you will likely not mind,” Enjolras says, and Javert’s still staring at him. “But also very closely with Auden as quartermaster, which you might like less.”

“Rene are you quite certain?” Javert asks in disbelief.

“Very certain,” Enjolras answers. “Valjean will also be sailing on the _Liberte_ for a time, to give the _Misericorde’s_ crew time to adjust to Fantine as captain. I thought you might like that, as well.”

“Yes,” Javert says, more honest than Enjolras expects. “He has become a friend. I never could have expected it.”

Javert surveys Enjolras a moment, eyes trailing down to the two swords on his belt.

“Why are you carrying two?” Javert asks, tilting his head.

“One of them is for you,” Enjolras says, pulling one off his shoulder belt and holding it out. “My father’s cutlass has become my primary weapon,” he continues, running a quick finger over the handle. “But this cutlass is one of mine. I wanted you to have it.”

Their eyes meet again, and Enjolras sees the memory of that first encounter living in both of them; the night was achingly similar, despite the passing years. The memory appears with clarity in Enjolras’ mind. He remembers the quiet, awkward young man he approached. Some of the men on the ship were scared of Javert despite his young age, but it never occurred to Enjolras then, to be frightened of him in the least.

After a moment Javert takes the cutlass, hand grasping the sheath firmly.

"I suppose I'm not asking you to play this time," Enjolras whispers.

"No," Javert answers. "You aren't."

Still, Javert doesn’t say anything about the offer.

“You may think upon what I’ve offered,” Enjolras says. “And if you do not appear in the morning, I will take that as your reply.” He looks away from Javert, feeling tears brim in his eyes. “Half of me wanted to put you in the brig until you did as I wanted, but I know I cannot. The choice must be yours. But if you do not leave with us this time, Javert, I’m afraid it will be a permanent goodbye. I beg you not to march to your own death. I also cannot bear to meet you again on opposite sides of this war. I fear it would destroy us both. To meet you again in such a fashion if you take Rogers’ offer would only occur if I could not avoid the situation.”

“Something tells me you are perhaps, indestructible,” Javert says, half a joke.

“Flesh and blood, I’m afraid,” Enjolras says, letting himself laugh. “Just sturdy. Sometimes I think that I’ve survived this long half a miracle.”

“Your body, perhaps,” Javert says with great feeling that makes Enjolras look over at him again. “But your spirit is something else.”

Enjolras smiles wider now.

“I’d be willing to lend you some of that spirit, should you ask,” Enjolras says, quiet.

Javert waits a beat then reaches out, covering Enjolras’ hand with his own, searching his face as if memorizing every feature. He squeezes Enjolras’ hand once, then turns to go.

Enjolras watches him, his gaze following until the long boat hits the beach, and then he can no longer make Javert out. He hears light footsteps make the deck creak behind him, Astra approaching and slipping an arm through his.

“I hope that’s not the last time I see him,” Enjolras says, not quite trusting his voice to say anything more.

“I don’t think it will be,” Astra answers, using her free hand and running an affectionate finger down Enjolras’ cheek. “Something tells me you’ll see him at sunrise. Tiena thinks so, too. She’s going to talk to him.”

“Good,” Enjolras says. “I’m glad. I’m glad you’re here, too.”

At this Astra moves her arm, wrapping it around Enjolras’ waist instead, pulling him closer.

“Are you ready?” she asks. “For what tomorrow might bring?”

Enjolras looks out once again at Nassau laid out before him. He looks up at the stars, holding their places no matter the chaos of the world beneath their light. He thinks of the sun rising up above the ocean at dawn, its colors spilling like paint across the blue water in hues of red and orange and gold, warming up the world and reminding them of the inevitability of its rise.

 “Yes,” he says, meeting her eyes. “I’m ready.”

* * *

**Nassau.**

Javert walks slowly back to his mother’s house, Nassau eerily silent around him. He stands at the edge of the water before starting his trek, running a finger along the sheath of the cutlass Enjolras gave him, remembering the dark night when he broke the old wooden toy sword in half, throwing the pieces out into the ocean, remembering that one half kept bobbing back up to the surface.

Just as he leaves the ocean behind he sees a representative of the sparse population of the interior of the island towing toward Rogers’ warship, no doubt to make sure none of them are mistaken for pirates.

Each side waits for the other to make the first move; the blockade watching the pirates and the pirates watching the blockade. Some of the pirate ships have left their black flags defiantly flying. Javert looks at one off in the distance, watching the wind curl the material.

Could he fly under that flag?

Michel wanted him to.

Rene wanted him to.

Part of _him_ wanted to.

He doesn’t think he can take Rogers’ offer, though he can taste the temptation. He doesn’t search for death, not like that night on the _Liberte_ where somehow in the wake of Michel’s loss, in the wake of his entire life shattering on the deck, his direction and his morals in question, his very sanity slipping from his grasp, death seemed the only option. No, this decision revolves around whether or not he can be a _pirate_ , as if he chooses not, the world will suddenly fall away along with the other two choices.

But it will not.

He walks along, the ghostly footsteps of another beside him, the pain of missing Michel still a sharp pang in his chest despite the passing time. He suspects some grief will always be there; Michel was too important to him for it ever to vanish. But he lacks a proper channel for it, lacks the overall sense of purpose that had so driven him for most of his life. He worked on repairing ships, and that helped. He helped his mother in her shop and in her garden, and that helped. He spent time with Rene and with Valjean, feeling direction within his grasp.

Yet until he made a choice, until he set his feet firmly on a path, he would never find that direction. He existed between worlds, living with pirates but always half looking backward even as Rene and Valjean offered their hands out to him, pointing at the path toward the future.

The path Michel walked down.

The path Michel asked _him_ to walk down.

He sees Michel’s face in his mind’s eye, sees the reserved, subtle smile, wishing he could have seen his friend in those few months he was here on Nassau, if only to see that smile grow, to see that life in his eyes Rene spoke of instead of the pain of his last moments. He settles for remembering Michel’s laughter as Arthur told a joke, and the memories warm him.

For a moment, he almost feels a gentle, fatherly hand resting on his shoulder, but when he reaches for the doorknob to his mother’s house, it vanishes.

Michel could only help him make this choice from the beyond.

He walks inside, finding Tiena there, surveying the half empty surroundings.

“Chantal is gone?” he asks.

“She took the two chests, with Gavroche’s help,” Tiena says. “And went to spend the evening with Frantz on the _Liberte_.”

“What about the rest of this?” Javert asks.

“I packed everything important,” Tiena says. “And some things to sell, when we can make port. Port Royal, of all places, has become friendly to pirates under the table.”

“The world does change,” Javert says, feeling her eyes resting on him.

“You spoke to Rene?” she asks.

“I did,” Javert says. “He offered me a position of first mate. I admit, I did not expect anything of that sort. I scarcely knew what to make of it.”

“You always knew you were welcome to sail with them once the men could be convinced,” Tiena argues.

“No, I did,” Javert says. “But being an officer? I hadn’t expected it.”

“He wants you to come,” Tiena says. “So does Valjean. More than that, they want you to be one of them.” She pauses. “One of us.”

He looks away, not quite able to look at her, but she takes one of his hands anyway.

“Even if you didn’t take Rene’s offer,” she whispers. “I would beg you to at least come with us, Nicholas. The offer Rogers gave you can only end badly, once they’ve had their use of you, and the other option is them killing you.”

Javert grasps her hand tighter.

“I don’t want to lose you, Nicholas,” she says, rare tears in her voice. “Not again. Not when you have a choice.”

“I know,” he says, voice gravelly. “I know.”

“I know you fear being the very thing you fought against for so long,” Tiena says. “I know how frightening that is. But really, you’re already almost there. It’s just one more step. I’m certain you can take it.”

“I don’t know how to be a…” Javert swallows, voice thick. “A _pirate_.”

“Yes you do,” Tiena says, tugging at his hand and making him look at her. “All the people you have ever loved ended up here. You were drawn here by that love. All that’s stopping you now is your fear.”

He studies her face, seeing his own eyes looking back at him, seeing the black hair littered half with gray, but there’s a resilience in his mother’s face that remains, and it takes his breath away.

“Are you afraid?” he asks. “Of what might happen?”

“Yes,” she says, surprising him with the rapid answer. “But it’s the right thing. We’ll deal with whatever happens after when it arises. I couldn’t trust anyone more with my life than the people to whom I’ve entrusted it. For a long time I didn’t think I could trust anyone like I do them, but they changed that.”

“And what of the people who live in your boarding house?” Javert asks. “What will become of them?”

“Most are coming,” Chantal says. “A few are choosing to stay and see what becomes of Nassau.”

Javert turns his thoughts over and over again in his mind, reaching down into his pocket for the old bracelet from his childhood.

“Nicholas,” Tiena says, more urgent. “It’s only a few hours till dawn. Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Yes,” Javert says, looking out the small window, which faces out in the direction of the sea. “I think I do.”

* * *

**Dawn. Nassau.**

Some things end as they began.

There was a time long ago when Javert approached another ship in a much different harbor. It was a long time ago when he approached another Captain Enjolras; that captain was a little older, his dress a little more proper, and the flag he flew different. Javert hadn’t know that man. He hadn’t known what awaited him as he stepped onto the deck of that East India ship. All he knew was that he’d let a convict and a slave escape his grasp. That he’d failed the society he swore to guard.

In that other life, he never considered that perhaps society had failed him. That perhaps those two people who slipped from his grip would one day teach him how to better the world around him, instead of chaining those who dared defy the narrative in place. That perhaps there was another story to tell. A different one. A better one. One from the perspective of the slaves and the convicts and the abused and the ragged of the world. Perhaps there was also the story of the oppressors, who, upon finding a different path, changed course. The wheel of the world spun them all around in its machinations. There was pain. He’d seen it with his own eyes. He’s experienced it, been complicit in it and caused it. And now…

_Now…_

Now perhaps he might end the pain for some. Perhaps he might change lives.

But there wasn’t only pain, _god_ there was joy, too. Resilience. Courage. Love.

This Captain Enjolras he knows, his smile a mirror image of the first one. He’ll never forget the night that six-year-old boy approached him on the deck with his wooden toy sword, the light and the dreams in his eyes altering Javert’s life forever. He’d betrayed the boy, but he’d never forgotten those eyes. Perhaps he could make it up to the man.

As for what awaits him?

That was far less certain.

But a hope like he’s never felt before lives and breathes in his chest, fragile, but real.

Perhaps they would die today.

Perhaps not.

He cannot predict the future, but he swears he sees life in front of him.

He looks up at the sky, dusky with the dawn, the sun slowly creeping up over the horizon. He looks toward Rogers’ warship, seeing only a few marines and sailors standing guard, suspecting nothing. He looks toward the _Liberte_ and the _Misericorde_ , a real smile spreading onto his face despite the danger of the day. His mother had gone ahead to board the _Misericorde_.

“All right Michel,” he whispers aloud. “I’m trusting you from here, wherever you are now. Irritating Arthur in the beyond, I expect.”

He steps forward, the last faded stars vanishing from sight as the sun bursts over the horizon, the red-gold light striking the main deck of the _Liberte_ and landing on just the person he’s looking for. He leaves the longboat astride the ship, climbing up the ladder.

A hand reaches over, helping him up.

Rene.

He looks wan-he clearly hasn't slept in his grief over Nassau and his worry over Javert- but when he smiles it's not shy like it was that first night. It's broad and real and genuine, radiating with sunlight and staggering, breathtaking hope.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Astra, and Valjean stand nearby, but they give them space.

“Captain Enjolras,” Javert says, putting out one hand for Enjolras to shake, seeing it trembling. “I am at your service, sir.”

Enjolras bites his lip against a laugh, blinking as a couple of tears break loose from his eyes. He takes Javert’s hand, clasping it warmly.

“Welcome aboard,” Enjolras says, the sun striking him again, gold running off the edges of his long blond hair, the buttons on his red coat shining. “We are heartily glad to have you.”

There’s a pause, and Javert smirks.

“Now do not think this is an open excuse to boss me about, Rene,” Javert says, mirth in his voice. “I won’t have it.”

Enjolras breaks his calm demeanor, huffing. "That is by _nature_ what I will do. It's not bossing, it's giving orders in situations where they are needed."

"Ah but where is all your talk of that democratic way of life if you conflate it with bossiness?" Javert asks.

"I am _not_ ," Enjolras protests, trailing off, something of the six-year-old in his voice. "You are teasing me."

"You recognize it," Javert says.

"You are impossible," Enjolras says, but he's smiling still, releasing a chuckle.

"So you and Valjean have both said." Javert responds. "Though, it takes one to know one, I imagine.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but before Javert can respond he feels a hand on his shoulder, someone pulling him into an embrace, long blonde hair tickling his face and utterly surprising him.

“Michel would be proud of you,” Astra says, holding him tightly before letting go, embarrassed. “I just wanted you to know that. I know your mother is proud of you,” she says, waving at Tiena briefly from where she stands on the _Misericorde_.

Javert recovers from his surprise then reaches out, awkwardly but sincerely clasping Astra’s hand in return.

“Thank you,” Javert says. “Truly, Astra.”

“I knew you could do it,” Astra says, some tears in her eyes now. “From the moment Rene dashed into the door and told me about the man who agreed to play swords with him.”

She squeezes his hand and then releases it, dashing off toward Imogen, who winks at Javert.

Someone clears their throat behind him, and Javert turns, seeing Courfeyrac standing there, one eyebrow raised.

“Are you quite ready to take orders from me, first mate Javert?” he asks, smirking.

“Quite ready, Auden,” Javert grumbles, but he even he hears the begrudging affection in his own voice. “Care to tell me what the plan is?”

“Ah,” Courfeyrac says, wagging his finger. “We’re going to give you a bit of a surprise on your first day on duty. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

With that he’s gone, off to tend to some last minute preparation. Javert spots Combeferre, looking expectantly at him, then he puts out a hand for the other man to shake.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Combeferre says, a smile in his eyes behind the spectacles. “You’re joining just in time for quite a show, I expect.”

“The man you met wouldn’t have trusted pirates,” Javert says, raising both his eyebrows. “But the man today finds himself doing so. I imagine your plan will work.”

“We certainly hope so,” Valjean says, stepping up to them and putting a hand on Javert’s shoulder.

“Sailing on the _Liberte_ to keep an eye on me?” Javert asks.

“Ah I simply enjoy our card games,” Valjean says, a twinkle in his eyes. “Welcome aboard, my friend.”

Somehow despite the world of difference between the two men, Javert hears a hint of Michel in Valjean’s voice, and it takes him a second to gather himself.

“I’m sure the _Misericorde_ will be safe in Fantine’s hands,” Javert says, nodding as he spots her across, talking to Cosette and Gavroche.

“I’ll make sure to tell her you said so,” Valjean says, his smile growing.

Javert shakes his hand, then steps up to Enjolras, who gives final orders.

“Quietly on the guns,” he’s saying to Bahorel and Prouvaire. “Don’t put them out of the ports yet, just prepare, in case we need them.”

They nod at him, clasping his shoulder before going off to the gun deck, waving at Javert as they go.

“Frantz,” Enjolras whispers, no lack of emotion in his voice. “On the wheel if you please. Feuilly, unfurl the sails, and tell the men to pull up the anchor. It’s coming soon.”

What’s coming, Javert’s not certain.

Then, among the muted rush of the ship, it’s just the two of them, standing side by side.

“My father would be proud of you,” Enjolras says, eyes drifting back toward Nassau.

“He is proud of you,” Javert says in answer. “ _I_ am proud of you.”

Enjolras grasps Javert’s hand, squeezing it, and then their attentions are drawn toward something in the harbor, coming around from the other side of the island.

A fire ship.

Several men clamber off and into longboats as flame spreads across the ship as it lands in the center of the bay, shouts of alarm going up from Rogers’ ships. Several loud pops echo into the air, creating plumes of smoke. From explosives, Javert thinks.

Beneath him, he feels the _Liberte_ start moving, the _Misericorde_ alongside.

Then, a frightening and magnificent display of fireworks shoots into the dawn as the fire ship explodes. Behind them, a cheer goes up from both the pirates remaining on Nassau, and the ships making their escape.

The blockade is forced to break apart to put out the blaze, leaving room for the five or six ships Javert sees to escape the bay, sailing out toward the glowing horizon, the scent of smoke making all their nostrils tingle.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Enjolras calls out, exhilaration in his face. “Hoist the colors!”

He looks at Javert once more, joy and loss all mixed together in his eyes. On impulse Javert reaches out, touching Enjolras’ face with the back of his hand. Enjolras’ own hand comes up, clasping Javert’s for a second before dashing off toward the helm by Combeferre, that unfaltering belief in every single step. Javert watches Enjolras go, pride rushing through him.

Nassau lay behind, but the future lay before them edged with dawn, the path illuminated by starlight.

Behind them, the black flag flies in the wind.

They were free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! I'm still crying, probably. :D I hope you enjoyed this last chapter. The fire ship is a real thing that happened! It's how Charles Vane and some of the other pirates escaped Nassau after Rogers' arrival. Pretty cool, huh?
> 
> Two things: one, wish me luck on editing this thing up into what I suppose will be a trilogy? We shall see, but it's everyone reading this who has encouraged me to make that attempt, so thank you, a thousand times over. We'll see how it goes. 
> 
> Two, be on the lookout for more in this fic verse! I will be adding to the Deleted Scenes series, and am also looking into a continuation, as I've said before, likely in the form of a series as well. Thank you AO3 for having that awesome option. 
> 
> Until then, lovely readers!


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